m 


mm 


MEMOIR, 


LET  TEES,   AND   POEMS 


OF 


BERNARD  BARTON. 


EDITED 


BY  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

LINDSAY   AND    BLAKISTON, 
1850. 


STEREOTYPED     BY     J.     FAGAN 


PRINTED      BY     C.     SHERMAN. 


&?!  .;/:• 


TO 


MR.  AND  MRS.   SHAWE, 


KESGEAVE   HALL,    SUFFOLK, 


THE  FRIENDS  OF  HER  DEAR  FATHER, 


ILUtle  Eoofc  fa 


WITH    GRATEFUL   AND   AFFECTIONATE   REGARD, 


THE  EDITOR. 


M185236 


PREFACE. 


IN  compiling  the  present  little  volume,  it  has  been 
the  wish  of  the  Editor  in  some  measure  to  carry  out 
her  dearest  Father's  favourite  but  unfulfilled  design 
of  an  autobiography.  It  is  with  reference  to  this 
that  both  the  Poems  and  Letters  have  been  selected ; 
and  she  begs  to  return  her  grateful  thanks  to  the 
Publishers  of  his  respective  volumes,  Messrs.  Hatch- 
ard,  Parker,  Baldwin,  Holdsworth,  and  Boys,  for 
the  readiness  with  which  they  have  granted  her  the 
freedom  of  selecting  what  seemed  most  desirable ;  — 
to  Mr.  Orr,  for  the  kindness  which  has  permitted  her 
to  avail  herself  of  his  purchased  right  in  some  of  the 
Poems : — and  to  Messrs.  Virtue,  for  the  liberality  with 
which  she  has  been  allowed  to  glean  so  largely  from 
his  last  published  volume,  "  The  Household  Verses."  * 

*  It  is  due  to  the  Publishers  of  this  last-named  work  to  state,  that 

the  following  Poems  from  its  pages  will  be  found  in  the  present 

volume : — Sonnet  to  a  Friend  never  yet  seen,  but  corresponded  with 

for  above  twenty  years.     To  the  Memory  of  Elizabeth  Hodgkin. 

1*  Cv) 


VI  PREFACE. 

It  has  been  deemed  allowable  to  give  the  Poems  that 
general  revision  which  they  might  have  undergone 
from  their  Author,  had  he  lived  to  re-publish  them ; 
a  need  of  revision  and  condensation  being  evident  to 
the  Editor  herself,  and  to  some  others,  of  whose  ad- 
vice and  assistance  she  has  not  hesitated  to  avail 
herself. 

The  Ivy, — The  Valley  of  Fern, — Stanzas  written 
in  the  grounds  of  Martin  Cole, — and  some  others,  are 
given  quite  unaltered ;  being  already  so  well  known 
and  liked  by  many  persons  in  their  original  shape. 
In  some  instances  the  moral  has  been  retrenched 
from  the  story,  or  the  reflections  from  the  scene  that 
originated  them,  when  those  reflections  and  moral 
were  obvious  enough  to  suggest  themselves,  or  were 
repeated  in  some  better  form  elsewhere ;  as  in  the 
case  of  Great  Bealings  Churchyard,  Bethesda,  &c. 

The   great   bulk   of  the  Poems  is  religious ;   but 

Selborne,  a  Sonnet.  The  Shunammite  Woman.  Memorial  of  John 
Scott.  To  the  B.  B.  Schooner,  on  seeing  her  sail  down  the  Deben 
for  Liverpool.  Sonnet  to  the  Sister  of  an  old  Schoolfellow.  Trip- 
lets for  Truth's  Sake.  A  Thought.  Verses,  suggested  by  a  very 
curious  Old  Room  at  the  Tankard,  Ipswich.  Faith,  Hope,  and 
Charity.  Sonnets  written  at  Burstal.  John  Evelyn.  Orford  Castle. 
The  Departed.  On  a  Drawing  of  Norwich  Market-place,  by  Cot- 
man,  taken  in  1807.  To  the  Deben.  To  a  very  young  Housewife. 


PREFACE.  VU 

there  are  not  wanting  those  of  a  lighter  character, 
which  will  be  found  to  be  the  wholesome  relaxation 
of  a  pure,  good,  and  essentially  religious  mind. 
These  may  succeed  each  other  as  gracefully  and 
beneficently  as  April  sunshine  and  showers  over  the 
meadow.  So  indeed  such  moods  followed  in  his 
own  mind,  and  were  so  revealed  in  his  domestic  in- 
tercourse. 


The  Letters  are  none  of  them  of  a  very  distant 
date;  few  early  ones  having  been  preserved,  and 
where  preserved,  possessing  less  interest  than  those 
of  a  later  date.  They  have  been  chosen,  so  far  as  it 
was  possible,  from  various  correspondents,  and  are 
arranged,  for  brevity's  sake,  not  in  exact  chronolo- 
gical order  as  regards  all  the  correspondents,  but  only 
as  regards  each.  They  are  not  connected  by  Memoir, 
because  few  of  them  are  found  to  relate  to  the  pass- 
ing events  of  life,  but  rather  contain  recollections  of 
that  which  is  already  past ;  or,  tell  in  his  own  way, 
what  he  thought  and  felt  on  subjects  of  the  greatest 
interest  to  him.  They  are  of  various  moods,  on 
various  subjects,  but,  like  the  Poems,  at  one  with 
each  other  in  this,  they  always  reveal  a  heart  which, 
though  often  playful  and  humorous,  like  Words- 
worth's good  old  Matthew ;  like  him,  too,  could  never 
once  be  said  to  "go  astray." 


VU1  PREFACE. 

The  Editor  owes  especial  thanks  to  such  of  her 
dearest  Father's  correspondents,  who,  by  kindly 
placing  his  letters  at  her  disposal,  have  in  great  mea- 
sure supplied  to  her  the  material  by  which  she  has 
been  enabled  to  lay  before  her  readers  his  own 
opinions  in  his  own  words. 


That  feeling  which  has  made  the  Editor  entirely 
unequal  to  write  that  part  of  the  volume  more  directly 
biographical  keeps  her  silent  upon  it  here.  She  has 
intrusted  it  to  one  who  knew  her  Father  well,  and 
on  whom  she  can  rely  for  an  impartial  relation  of  his 
history.  It  has  been  more  amply  detailed  than  it 
would  have  been  for  the  public  only,  at  her  request, 
in  order  to  satisfy  many  subscribers  to  whom  the 
account  of  his  life  was  likely  to  be  especially  inter- 
esting. 

LUCY  BARTON. 

Woodbridge,  August  14*A,  1849. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

MEMOIR 13 

LETTERS. 

To  the  Rev.  C.  B.  Tayler 43 

To  Mrs.  Shavve 51 

To  W.  B.  Donne,  Esq 71 

To  Mrs.  Button 77 

To  Mr.  Clemisha 102 

To  Miss  H 106 

To  Elizabeth  and  Maria  C '. 112 

To  Mr.  Fulcher 118 

To  Miss  Betham 128 

To  the  Rev.  T.  W.  Salmon 129 

To  Jane  B 132 

To  the  Rev.  G.  Crabbe 133 

Letters  from  Robert  Southey 149 

Letters  from  Charles  Lamb 168 

Fragments  from  Lloyd's  Letters 185 

Letter  from  Sir  Walter  Scott 189 

POEMS. 


Great  Bealings  Churchyard. . . : 194 

To  the  Memory  of  Mrs.  M 196 

To  Friends  going  to  the  Sea-side 197 

To  J.  W 199 

Two  Sonnets.    Guido  Fawkes 200 

"  Not  our's  the  vows  of  such  as  plight" 202 

Orford  Castle 203 

Pool  of  Bethesda - 204 

A  Full-blown  Rose 206 

To  Lady  Peel 207 

Sonnet,  On  True  Worship 208 

Sonnet,  To  my  Daughter 209 

Tears 210 

Izaak  Walton 211 

A  Child's  Morning  Hymn 212 

A  Child's  Evening  Hymn 213 

(ix) 


X  CONTENTS. 

Bishop  Hubert 215 

The  Missionary 217 

Old  Age 222 

Perm's  Treaty  with  the  Indians 223 

"  Dews  that  nourish  fairest  flowers  " 223 

Aldborough.    To  the  memory  of  Crabbe 224 

To  a  Friend,  on  the  Death  of  her  Father 225 

In  the  first  leaf  of  an  Album 227 

A  Stream 228 

Sabbath  Days 228 

Sonnet,  To  William  and  Mary  Howitt 230 

Sonnet,  to  the  same 231 

Sonnet,  In  Memorial  of  Elizabeth  Fry 232 

On  some  Illustrations  of  Cowper's  Rural  Walks 233 

The  Wall-flower 234 

Zecha  ri  ah  xi v.  7 235 

Winter  Evenings 236 

Job  v.  17 237 

On  some  Pictures 238 

41  As  I  roam'd  on  the  beach,  to  my  memory  rose  " 239 

The  Philistine  Champion 240 

Leiston  Abbey  by  Moonlight 241 

The  Valley  of  Fern 243 

An  Invitation 246 

Autumn 247 

Spring,  written  fora  Child's  Book 248 

In  an  Album 249 

Sonnet,  On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Gurney,  1831 250 

To  Joanna 251 

The  Solitary  Tomb 253 

Ive-Gill 255 

"  The  rose  which  in  the  sun's  bright  rays  " 256 

Which  Things  are  a  Shadow 257 

To  an  old  Gateway 258 

Fireside  Quatrains  to  Charles  Lamb 260 

Sonnet,  to  the  Sister  of  an  old  School-fellow 262 

The  Curse  of  Disobedience 263 

Signs  and  Tokens 264 

The  Ivy 265 

Silent  Worship • 267 

To  the  Memory  of  Robert  Bloomfield 269 

All  is  Vanity 271 

To  L 272 

Autumn,  Written  in  the  Grounds  of  Martin  Cole,  Esq 273 

A  Grandsire's  Tale 275 

Sonnet,  to  Nathan  Drake 280 

Ma    bewvi.  16 281 

Al^-orough  from  the  Terrace 282 

So   -»et,  To  a  Friend  never  yet  seen,  but  corresponded  with  for  above  twenty 


CONTENTS.  XI 

Sonnet,  To  Charlotte  M 284 

Sonnet,  to  the  Rev.  J.  J.  Reynolds 285 

Fall  of  an  old  Tree  in  Playford  Churchyard 286 

The  Land  which  no  Mortal  may  know 287 

Fragment  on  Autumn 288 

On  a  Vignette  of  Woodbridge  from  the  Warren  Hill 289 

Invocation  to  Autumn 290 

Stanzas,  to  William  Roscoe,  Esq 292 

On  the  Alienation  of  Friends  in  the  Decline  of  Life 293 

Selborne 298 

Dunwich 299 

To  the  Skylark 301 

To  a  very  young  Housewife 303 

"  All  around  was  calm  and  still " 304 

"  Thy  path,  like  most  by  mortal  trod  " 305 

John  Evelyn 306 

Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity 307 

The  Shunammite  Woman 308 

The  Departed 309 

Verses  suggested  by  a  curious  old  Room  at  the  "Tankard  " 311 

The  Mother  of  Dr.  Doddridge  teaching  him  Scripture  History.  ..',-# 312 

"  Could  I  but  fly  to  that  calm,  peaceful  shore  " ." 313- 

To  a  Friend ! 314 

Hymn  for  a  Sunday  School 315 

River  Scene •'. 316 

The  Abbot  turned  Anchorite '. 317 

From  a  Poem  addressed  to  Shelley ; 318 

Autumn  Musings ,...'. 319 

The  Sea 320 

To  a  pious  Slave  owner 322 

Wigs  and  Tories 323 

The  deserted  Nest 324 

Triplets  for  Truth's  sake 325 

To  little  Susan 326 

Sonnet 327 

A  Dream 328 

In  Memory  of  F.  H 331 

«'  To  be  remember'd  when  the  face  " 332 

To  the  Deben 333 

Epitaph 334 

"Oh  had  I  the  wings  of  a  dove" 335 

Too  Late 336 

On  a  Garden 336 

Sonnet,  to  G.  D.  L 337 

Sonnet,  on  the  Death  of  a  Friend 338 

Written  in  a  Prayer-book  given  to  my  Daughter 339 

Inscription  for  a  Cemetery 339 

To  A.  L 340 

Landguard  Fort 341 

To  a  Friend  in  Distress 343 

Tardy  Approach  of  Spring 343 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

The  Valley  of  Fern 344 

To  Charlotte  M 348 

Scott  of  Amwell 349 

"  Some  griefs  there  are  which  seem  to  form  " 350 

Stanzas 351 

"  There  be  those  who  sow  beside  " 352 

To  the  Wife  of  one  disappointed  of  his  Election 353 

To  some  Friends  returning  from  the  Sea-side 354 

A  Village  Church 356 

To  a  Friend  on  her  Birth-day 357 

Psalm  Ixxvii.  10.    Sonnet 359 

A  New-year  Offering,  addressed  to  Queen  Victoria 360 

2  Timothy  ii.  4 365 

The  Bible 366 

Sonnet 368 

Verses  to  a  Young  Friend 369 

Sonnet .• 371 

Jacob  Wrestling 372 

Winter  Evening  Ditty  for  a  little  Girl 373 

1  Kings  xvii.  16 375 

On  the  Death  of  a  Child 376 

To  the  "  Bernard  Barton  "  Schooner 378 

Birthday  Verses  at  Sixty-four 379 

On  the  Glory  depicted  round  the  Head  of  the  Saviour 383 

To  a  Grandmother 384 

"I  walk'd  the  fields  at  morning  prime" 385 

On  a  Drawing  of  Norwich  Market-place 386 

The  Spiritual  Law 386 

Sonnet 390 

Vision  of  an  Old  Home 391 

To  Felicia  Hemans 392 

The  Squirrel,  fora  Child's  Book 393 

"It  is  a  glorious  summer  eve,  and  in  the  glowing  west" 393 

Playford 394 

Sonnets,  To  Burstal 395 

Retirement  and  Prayer 403 

In  Coelo  Quies 404 


MEMOIR 


OF 


BERNARD  BARTON. 


[FROM  A  LETTER  OF  BERNARD  BARTON'S.] 

"2  mo,  11,1839. 

"  THY  cordial  approval  of  my  brother  John's  hearty  wish  to 
bring  us  back  to  the  simple  habits  of  the  olden  time,  induces  me 
to  ask  thee  if  I  mentioned  in  either  of  my  late  letters  the 
curious  old  papers  he  stumbled  on  in  hunting  through  the 
repositories  of  our  late  excellent  spinster  sister  7  I  quite  forget 
whether  I  did  or  not ;  so  I  will  not  at  a  venture  repeat  all  the 
items.  But  he  found  an  inventory  of  the  goods  and  chattels  of 
our  great-grandfather,  John  Barton  of  Ive-Gill,  a  little  hamlet 
about  five  or  seven  miles  from  Carlisle ;  by  which  it  seems  our 
progenitor  was  one  of  those  truly  patriarchal  personages,  a 
Cumbrian  statesman  —  living  on  his  own  little  estate,  and  draw- 
ing from  it  all  things  needful  for  himself  and  his  family.  I  will 
be  bound  for  it  my  good  brother  was  more  gratified  at  finding 
his  earliest  traceable  ancestor  such  a  one  than  if  he  had  found 
him  in  the  college  of  heralds  with  gules  purpure  and  argent 
emblazoned  as  his  bearings.  The  total  amount  of  his  stock, 
independent  of  house,  land,  and  any  money  he  might  have, 
seems  by  the  valuation  to  have  been  £61  6s. ,  and  the  copy  of 
his  admission  to  his  little  estate  gives  the  fine  as  £5,  so  that  I 
2  (13) 


14  MEMOIR. 

suppose  its  annual  value  was  then  estimated  at  £2  15*.  This 
was  about  a  century  back.  Yet  this  man  was  the  chief  means 
of  building  the  little  chapel  in  the  dale,  still  standing.  (He 
was  a  churchman.)  I  doubt  not  he  was  a  fine  simple-hearted, 
noble-minded  yeoman,  in  his  day,  and  I  am  very  proud  of  him. 
Why  did  his  son,  my  grandfather,  after  whom  I  was  named, 
ever  leave  that  pleasant  dale,  and  go  and  set  up  a  manufactory 
in  Carlisle;  inventing  a  piece  of  machinery*  for  which  he  had  a 
medal  from  the  Royal  Society  1 — so  says  Pennant.  Methinks  he 
had  better  have  abode  in  the  old  grey  stone  slate-covered  home- 
stead on  the  banks  of  that  pretty  brooklet  the  Ive !  But  I  bear 
his  name,  so  I  will  not  quarrel  with  his  memory." 

Thus  far  Bernard  Barton  traces  the  history  of  his  family. 
And  it  appears  that,  as  his  grandfather's  mechanical  genius  drew 
him  away  from  the  pastoral  life  at  Ive-Gill,  so  his  father,  who  was 
of  a  literary  turn,  reconciled  himself  with  difficulty  to  the  manu- 
factory he  inherited  at  Carlisle.  "I  always,"  he  wrote,  "perused 
a  Locke,  an  Addison,  or  a  Pope,  with  delight,f  and  ever  sat  down 
to  my  ledger  with  a  sort  of  disgust ;"  and  he  at  one  time  deter- 
mined to  quit  a  business  in  which  he  had  been  "  neither  success- 
fully nor  agreeably  engaged,"  and  become  "  a  minister  of  some 
sect  of  religion — it  will  then  be  time,"  he  says,  "  to  determine  of 
what  sect,  when  I  am  enabled  to  judge  of  their  respective  merits. 
But  this  I  will  freely  confess  to  you,  that  if  there  be  any  one  of 
them,  the  tenets  of  which  are  more  favourable  to  rational  religion 
than  the  one  in  which  I  have  been  brought  up,  I  shall  be  so  far 
from  thinking  it  a  crime,  that  I  cannot  but  consider  it  my  duty  to 
embrace  it."  This,  however,  was  written  when  he  was  very 
young.  He  never  gave  up  business,  but  changed  one  business 
for  another,  and  shifted  the  scene  of  its  transaction.  His  re- 

*  The  manufactory  was  one  of  calico-printing.  The  "  piece  of  ma- 
chinery "  is  thus  described  by  Pennant :— "  Saw  at  Mr.  Bernard  Bar- 
ton's  a  pleasing  sight  of  twelve  little  girls  spinning  at  once  at  a  hori- 
zontal wheel,  which  set  twelve  bobbins  in  motion ;  yet  so  contrived, 
that  should  any  accident  happen  to  one,  the  motion  of  that  might  be 
stopped  without  any  impediment  to  the  others." 

t  See  an  amusing  account  of  his  portrait,  with  his  favourite  books 
about  him,  painted  about  this  time,  Letter  I.  of  this  Collection. 


M  E  M  O  I  E  .  15 

Jigious  inquiries  led  to  a  more  decided  result.  He  very  soon 
left  the  Church  of  England,  and  became  a  member  of  the 
Society  of  Friends. 

About  the  same  time  he  married  a  Quaker  lady,  Mary  Done, 
of  a  Cheshire  family.  She  bore  him  several  children  :  but  only 
three  lived  to  maturity;  two  daughters,  of  whom  the  elder, 
Maria,  distinguished  herself,  afterward,  as  the  author  of  many 
useful  children's  books  under  her  married  name,  Hack;  and 
one  son,  Bernard,  the  poet,  who  was  born  January  31,  1784. 

Shortly  before  Bernard's  birth,  however,  John  Barton  had 
removed  to  London,  where  he  engaged  in  something  of  the 
same  business  he  had  quitted  at  Carlisle,  but  where  he  pro- 
bably found  society  and  interests  more  suited  to  his  taste. 
I  do  not  know  whether  he  ever  acted  as  minister  in  his 
Society;  but  his  name  appears  on  one  record  of  their  most 
valuable  endeavours.  The  Quakers  had  from  the  very  time 
of  George  Fox  distinguished  themselves  by  their  opposition  to 
slavery :  a  like  feeling  had  gradually  been  growing  up  in  other 
quarters  of  England ;  and  in  1787  a  mixed  committee  of  twelve 
persons  was  appointed  to  promote  the  Abolition  of  the  Slave- 
trade ;  Wilberforce  engaging  to  second  them  with  all  his 
influence  in  parliament.  Among  these  twelve  stands  the  name 
of  John  Barton,  in  honourable  companionship  with  that  of 
Thomas  Clarkson. 

"I  lost  my  mother,"  again  writes  B.  B.,  "when  I  was  only  a 
few  days  old;  and  my  father  married  again  in  my  infancy  so 
wisely  and  so  happily,  that  I  knew  not  but  his  second  wife  was 
my  own  mother,  till  I  learned  it  years  after  at  a  boarding 
school."  The  name  of  this  amiable  step-mother  was  Elizabeth 
Home;  a  Quaker  also;  daughter  of  a  merchant,  who,  with  his 
house  in  London  and  villa  at  Tottenham,  was  an  object  of  B. 
B.'s  earliest  regard  and  latest  recollection.  "  Some  of  my  first 
recollections,"  he  wrote  fifty  years  after,  "  are  looking  out  of  his 
parlour  windows  at  Bankside  on  the  busy  Thames,  with  its  ever- 
changing  scene,  and  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's  rising  out  of  the  smoke 
on  the  other  side  of  the  river.  But  my  most  delightful  recollec- 
tions of  boyhood  are  connected  with  the  fine  old  country-house 
in  a  green  lane  diverging  from  the  high  road  which  runs  through 


16  MEMOIR. 

Tottenham.  I  would  give  seven  years  of  life  as  it  now  is,  for 
a  week  of  that  which  I  then  led.  It  was  a  large  old  house, 
with  an  iron  palisade  and  a  pair  of  iron  gates  in  front,  and  a 
huge  stone  eagle  on  each  pier.  Leading  up  to  the  steps  by 
which  you  went  up  to  the  hall  door,  was  a  wide  gravel  walk, 
bordered  in  summer  time  by  huge  tubs,  in  which  were  orange 
and  lemon  trees,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  grass-plot  stood  a 
tub  yet  huger,  holding  an  enormous  aloe.  The  hall  itself,  to 
my  fancy  then  lofty  and  wide  as  a  cathedral  would  seem  now, 
was  a  famous  place  for  battledore  and  shuttlecock ;  and  behind 
was  a  garden,  equal  to  that  of  old  Alcinous  himself.  My  fa- 
vourite walk  was  one  of  turf  by  a  long  strait  pond,  bordered 
with  lime-trees.  But  the  whole  demesne  was  the  fairy  ground 
of  my  childhood ;  and  its  presiding  genius  was  grandpapa.  He 
must  have  been  a  handsome  man  in  his  youth,  for  I  remember 
him  at  nearly  eighty,  a  very  fine  looking  one,  even  in  the  decay 
of  mind  and  body.  In  the  morning  a  velvet  cap ;  by  dinner,  a 
flaxen  wig;  and  features  always  expressive  of  benignity  and 
placid  cheerfulness.  When  he  walked  out  into  the  garden,  his 
cocked  hat  and  amber-headed  cane  completed  his  costume.  To 
the  recollection  of  this  delightful  personage,  I  am,  I  think, 
indebted  for  many  soothing  and  pleasing  associations  with  old 
age." 

John  Barton  did  not  live  to  see  the  only  child  —  a  son  —  that 
was  born  to  him  by  this  second  marriage.  He  had  some  time 
before  quitted  London,  and  taken  partnership  in  a  malting 
business  at  Hertford,  where  he  died  in  the  prime  of  life.  After 
his  death  his  widow  returned  to  Tottenham,  and  there  with  her 
son  and  step-children  continued  for  some  time  to  reside. 

In  due  time,  Bernard  was  sent  to  a  much-esteemed  Quaker 
school  at  Ipswich:  returning  always  to  spend  his  holidays  at 
Tottenham.  When  fourteen  years  old,  he  was  apprenticed  to 
Mr.  Samuel  Jesup,  a  shopkeeper  at  Halstead  in  Essex.  "  There 
I  stood,"  he  writes,  "for  eight  years  behind  the  counter  of  the 
corner  shop  at  the  top  of  Halstead  Hill,  kept  to  this  day" 
(Nov.  9,  1828)  "by  my  old  master,  and  still  worthy  uncle, 
S.  Jesup." 

In  1806  he  went  to  Woodbridge:  and  a  year  after  married 


MEMOIR.  17 

Lucy  Jesup,  the  niece  of  his  former  master,  and  entered  into 
partnership  with  her  brother  as  coal  and  corn  merchant.  But 
she  died  a  year  after  marriage,  in  giving  birth  to  the  only  child, 
who  now  survives  them  both ;  and  he,  perhaps  sickened  with 
the  scene  of  his  blighted  love,*  and  finding,  like  his  father,  that 

*  The  following  verses  were  published  in  his  first  volume : — 

0  thou  from  earth  for  ever  fled  ! 
Whose  reliques  lie  among  the  dead, 
With  daisied  verdure  overspread, 

My  Lucy ! 

For  many  a  weary  day  gone  by, 
How  many  a  solitary  sigh 

1  've  heaved  for  thee,  no  longer  nigh, 

My  Lucy ! 

And  if  to  grieve  I  cease  awhile, 
I  look  for  that  enchanting  smile 
Which  all  my  cares  could  once  beguile, 
My  Lucy! 

But  ah  !  in  vain  —  the  blameless  art 
Which  used  to  soothe  my  troubled  heart 
Is  lost  with  thee,  my  better  part, 
My  Lucy. 

Thy  converse,  innocently  free, 
That  made  the  fiends  of  fancy  flee, 
Ah  then  I  feel  the  want  of  thee, 
My  Lucy! 

Nor  is  it  for  myself  alone 
That  I  thy  early  death  bemoan ; 
Our  infant  now  is  all  my  own, 
My  Lucy ! 

Couldst  thou  a  guardian  angel  prove 
To  the  dear  offspring  of  our  love, 
Until  it  reach  the  realms  above, 

My  Lucy ! 
2* 


18  MEMOIR. 

he  had  less  taste  for  the  ledger  than  for  literature,  almost  directly 
quitted  Woodbridge,  and  engaged  himself  as  private  tutor  in  the 
family  of  Mr.  Waterhouse,  a  merchant  in  Liverpool.  There 
Bernard  Barton  had  some  family  connexions ;  and  there  also  he 
was  kindly  received  and  entertained  by  the  Roscoe  family,  who 
were  old  acquaintances  of  his  father  and  mother. 

After  a  year's  residence  in  Liverpool,  he  returned  to  Wood- 
bridge,  and  there  became  clerk  in  Messrs.  Alexander's  bank — a 
kind  of  office  which  secures  certain,  if  small,  remuneration, 
without  any  of  the  anxiety  of  business ;  and  there  he  continued 
for  forty  years,  working  till  within  two  days  of  his  death. 

He  had  always  been  fond  of  books;  was  one  of  the  most 
active  members  of  a  Woodbridge  Book  Club,  which  he  only 
quitted  a  month  or  two  before  he  died ;  and  had  written  and  sent 
to  his  friends  occasional  copies  of  verse.  In  1812  he  published 
his  first  volume  of  poems,  called  "  Metrical  Effusions,"  and  be- 
gan a  correspondence  with  Southey,  who  continued  to  give  him 
most  kind  and  wise  advice  for  many  years.  A  complimentary 
copy  of  verses  which  he  had  addressed  to  the  author  of  the 
"Queen's  Wake,"  (just  then  come  into  notice,)  brought  him 

Could  thy  angelic  spirit  stray, 
Unseen  companion  of  my  way, 
As  onward  drags  the  weary  day, 
My  Lucy ! 

And  when  the  midnight  hour  shall  close 
Mine  eyes  in  short  unsound  repose, 
Couldst  thou  but  whisper  off  my  woes, 
My  Lucy ! 

Then,  though  my  loss  I  must  deplore, 
Till  next  we  meet  to  part  no  more 
I  'd  wait  the  grasp  that  from  me  tore 
My  Lucy ! 

For,  be  my  life  but  spent  like  thine, 
With  joy  shall  I  that  life  resign, 
And  fly  to  thee  for  ever  mine, 
My  Lucy ! 


MEMOIR.  19 

long  and  vehement  letters  from  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  full  of 
thanks  to  Barton  and  praises  of  himself;  and  along  with  all 
this,  a  tragedy  "that  will  astonish  the  world  ten  times  more 
than  the  *  Queen's  Wake'  has  done,"  a  tragedy  with  so  many 
characters  in  it  of  equal  importance  "that  justice  cannot  be 
done  it  in  Edinburgh,"  and  therefore  the  author  confidentially 
intrusts  it  to  Bernard  Barton  to  get  it  represented  in  London. 
Theatres,  and  managers  of  theatres,  being  rather  out  of  the 
Quaker  poet's  way,  he  called  into  council  Capel  Lofft,  with 
whom  he  also  corresponded,  and  from  whom  he  received  flying 
visits  in  the  course  of  Lofft's  attendance  at  the  county  sessions. 
Lofft  took  the  matter  into  consideration,  and  promised  all  assist- 
ance, but  on  the  whole  dissuaded  Hogg  from  trying  London 
managers ;  he  himself  having  sent  them  three  tragedies  of  his 
own ;  and  others  by  friends  of  "  transcendant  merit,  equal  to  Miss 
Baillie's,"  all  of  which  had  fallen  on  barren  ground.* 

In  1818  Bernard  Barton  published  by  subscription  a  thin  4to 
volume  —  "Poems  by  an  Amateur,"  —  and  shortly  afterward  ap- 
peared under  the  auspices  of  a  London  publisher  in  a  volume  of 
"  Poems,"  which,  being  favourably  reviewed  in  the  Edinburgh, 
reached  a  fourth  edition  by  1825.  In  1822  came  out  his  "  Napo- 
leon," which  he  managed  to  get  dedicated  and  presented" to  George 
the  Fourth.  And  now  being  launched  upon  the  public  with  a 
favouring  gale,  he  pushed  forward  with  an  eagerness  that  was 
little  to  his  ultimate  advantage.  Between  1822  and  1828  he  pub- 
lished five  volumes  of  verse.  Each  of  these  contained  many  pretty 
poems ;  but  many  that  were  very  hasty,  and  written  more  as  task- 
work, when  the  mind  was  already  wearied  with  the  desk-labours 
of  the  day  ;f  not  waiting  for  the  occasion  to  suggest,  nor  the  im- 

*  This  was  not  B.  B's  nearest  approach  to  theatrical  honours.  In 
1822,  (just  after  the  Review  on  him  in  the  Edinburgh,)  his  niece  Eliza- 
beth Hack  writes  to  him,  "Aunt  Lizzy  tells  us,  that  when  one  of  the 
Sharps  was  at  Paris  some  little  time  ago,  there  was  a  party  of  Eng- 
lish actors  performing  plays.  One  night  he  was  in  the  theatre,  and 
an  actor  of  the  name  of  Barton  was  announced,  when  the  audience 
called  out  to  inquire  if  it  was  the  Quaker  poet." 

t  The  "  Poetic  Vigils,"  published  in  1824,  have  (he  says  in  the- 
Preface)  "at  least  this  claim  to  the  title  given  them,  that  they  are 
the  production  of  hours  snatched  from  recreation  or  repose." 


20  MEMOIR. 

pulse  to  improve.  Of  this  he  was  warned  by  his  friends,  and  of 
the  danger  of  making  himself  too  cheap  with  publishers  and  the 
public.  But  the  advice  of  others  had  little  weight  in  the  hour  of 
success  with  one  so  inexperienced  and  so  hopeful  as  himself.  And 
there  was  in  Bernard  Barton  a  certain  boyish  impetuosity  in  pur- 
suit of  anything  he  had  at  heart,  that  age  itself  scarcely  could 
subdue.  Thus  it  was  with  his  correspondence ;  and  thus  it  was 
with  his  poetry.  He  wrote  always  with  great  facility,  almost 
unretarded  by  that  worst  labour  of  correction ;  for  he  was  not 
fastidious  himself  about  exactness  of  thought  or  of  harmony  of 
numbers,  and  he  could  scarce  comprehend  why  the  public  should 
be  less  easily  satisfied.  Or  if  he  did  labour —  and  labour  he  did 
at  that  time  —  still  it  was  at  task-work  of  a  kind  he  liked.  He 
loved  poetry  for  its  own  sake,  whether  to  read  or  to  compose,  and 
felt  assured  that  he  was  employing  his  own  talent  in  the  cause  of 
virtue  and  religion,*  and  the  blameless  affections  of  men.  No 
doubt  he  also  liked  praise ;  though  not  in  any  degree  proportional 
to  his  eagerness  in  publishing ;  but  inversely,  rather.  Very  vain 
men  are  seldom  so  careless  in  the  production  of  that  from  which 
they  expect  their  reward.  And  Barton  soon  seemed  to  forget  one 
book  in  the  preparation  of  another ;  and  in  time  to  forget  the  con- 
tents of  all,  except  a  few  pieces  that  arose  more  directly  from  his 
heart,  and  so  naturally  attached  themselves  to  his  memory.  And 
there  was  in  him  one  great  sign  of  the  absence  of  any  inordinate 
vanity — the  total  want  of  envy.  He  was  quite  as  anxious  others 
should  publish  as  himself;  would  never  believe  there  could  be  too 
much  poetry  abroad ;  would  scarce  admit  a  fault  in  the  verses  of 
others,  whether  private  friends  or  public  authors,  though  after  a 
while  (as  in  his  own  case)  his  mind  silently  and  unconsciously 
adopted  only  what  was  good  in  them.  A  much  more  likely  motive 
for  this  mistaken  activity  of  publication  is,  the  desire  to  add  to 
the  slender  income  of  his  clerkship.  For  Bernard  Barton  was  a 
generous,  and  not  a  provident  man ;  and,  few  and  modest  as  were 
his  wants,  he  did  not  usually  manage  to  square  them  to  the  still 
narrower  limit  of  his  means. 

*  "  The  Devotional  Verses"  (1827)  were  begun  with  a  very  serious 
intention,  and  seem  written  carefully  throughout,  as  became  the  sub- 
ject. 


MEMOIR.  21 

But  apart  from  all  these  motives,  the  preparation  of  a  book  was 
amusement  and  excitement  to  one  who  had  little  enough  of  it  in 
the  ordinary  routine  of  daily  life :  treaties  with  publishers  —  ar- 
rangements of  printing — correspondence  with  friends  on  the  sub- 
ject— and,  when  the  little  volume  was  at  last  afloat,  watching  it 
for  a  while  somewhat  as  a  boy  watches  a  paper  boat  committed 
to  the  sea. 

His  health  appears  to  have  suffered  from  his  exertions.  He 
writes  to  friends  complaining  of  low  spirits,  head-ache,  &c.,  the 
usual  eifect  of  sedentary  habits,  late  hours,  and  overtasked 
brain.  Charles  Lamb  advises  after  his  usual  fashion:  some 
grains  of  sterling  avail^J)le  truth  amid  a  heap  of  jests.*  Southey 
replies  more  gravely,  in  a  letter  that  should  be  read  and  marked 
by  every  student. 


*  "  You  are  too  much  apprehensive  about  your  complaint.  I  know 
many  that  are  always  ailing  of  it,  and  live  on  to  a  good  old  age.  I 
know  a  merry  fellow  (you  partly  know  him)  who,  when  his  medical 
adviser  told  him  he  had  drunk  away  all  that  part,  congratulated  him- 
self (now  his  liver  was  gone)  that  he  should  be  the  longest  liver  of  the 
two.  The  best  way  in  these  cases  is  to  keep  yourself  as  ignorant  as 
you  can  —  as  ignorant  as  the  world  was  before  Galen — of  the  entire 
inner  constructions  of  the  animal  man ;  not  to  be  conscious  of  a 
midriff;  to  hold  kidneys  (save  of  sheep  and  swine)  to  be  an  agreeable 
fiction ;  not  to  know  whereabouts  the  gall  grows ;  to  account  the  cir- 
culation of  the  blood  a  mere  idle  whim  of  Harvey's  ;  to  acknowledge 
no  mechanism  not  visible.  For,  once  fix  the  seat  of  your  disorder, 
and  your  fancies  flux  into  it  like  so  many  bad  humours.  Those  medical 
gentry  choose  each  his  favourite  part,  one  takes  the  lungs — another 
the  aforesaid  liver,  and  refers  to  that  whatever  in  the  animal  economy 
is  amiss.  Above  all,  use  exercise,  take  a  little  more  spirituous  liquors, 
learn  to  smoke,  continue  to  keep  a  good  conscience,  and  avoid  tam- 
perings  with  hard -terms  of  art — viscosity,  schirrosity,  and  those 
bugbears  by  which  simple  patients  are  scared  into  their  graves. 
Believe  the  general  sense  of  the  mercantile  world,  which  holds  that 
desks  are  not  deadly.  It  is  the  mind,  good  B.  B.,  and  not  the 
limbs,  that  taints  by  long  sitting.  Think  of  the  patience  of  tailors 
—  think  how  long  the  Lord  Chancellor  sits  — think  of  the  brooding 
hen." 


22  MEMOIR. 

Keswick,  27  Jan.,  1822. 

"  I  am  much  pleased  with  the  « Poet's  Lot'  —  no,  not  with  his 
lot,  but  with  the  verses  in  which  he  describes  it.  But  let  me 
ask  you  —  are  you  not  pursuing  your  studies  intemperately,  and 
to  the  danger  of  your  health  ?  To  be  '  writing  long  after  mid- 
night' and  'with  a  miserable  head-ache'  is  what  no  man  can  do 
with  impunity ;  and  what  no  pressure  of  business,  no  ardour 
of  composition,  has  ever  made  me  do.  I  beseech  you,  remem- 
ber the  fate  of  Kirke  White;  —  and  remember  that  if  you  sacri- 
fice your  health  (not  to  say  your  life)  in  the  same  manner, 
you  will  be  held  up  to  your  own  community  as  a  warning — not 
as  an  example  for  imitation.  The  spir^  which  disturbed  poor 
Scott  of  Amwell  in  his  last  illness  will  fasten  upon  your  name ; 
and  your  fate  will  be  instanced  to  prove  the  inconsistency  of  your 
pursuits  with  that  sobriety  and  evenness  of  mind  which  Quakerism 
requires,  and  is  intended  to  produce. — 

"You  will  take  this  as  it  is  meant  I  am,  sure. 

"  My  friend,  go  early  to  bed ; — and  if  you  eat  suppers,  read 
afterwards,  but  never  compose,  that  you  may  lie  down  with  a 
quiet  intellect.  There  is  an  intellectual  as  well  as  a  religious 
peace  of  mind ;  —  and  without  the  former,  be  assured  there  can 
be  no  health  for  a  poet.  God  bless  you. 

Yours  very  truly, 

R.  SOUTHEY." 

Mr.  Barton  had  even  entertained  an  idea  of  quitting  the  bank 
altogether,  and  trusting  to  his  pen  for  subsistence. — An  unwise 
scheme  in  all  men:  most  unwise  in  one  who  had  so  little  tact 
with  the  public  as  himself.  From  this,  however,  he  was  for- 
tunately diverted  by  all  the  friends  to  whom  he  communicated 
his  design.*  Charles  Lamb  thus  wrote  to  him : — 

*  So  long  ago  as  the  date  of  his  first  volume  he  had  written  to  Lord 
Byron  on  the  subject ;  who  thus  answered  him  :  — 

"St.  James's  Street,  June  1,  1812. 
"Sm, 

The  most  satisfactory  answer  to  the  concluding  part  of  your  letter 
is,  that  Mr.  Murray  will  re-publish  your  volume  if  you  still  retain 


ME  MO  IE.  23 

"9th  January,  1823. 

**  Throw  yourself  on  the  world  without  any  rational  plan  of 
support  beyond  what  the  chance  employ  of  booksellers  would 
afford  you  ! !  1 

your  inclination  for  the  experiment,  which  I  trust  will  be  successful. 
Some  weeks  ago  my  friend  Mr.  Rogers  showed  me  some  of  the  Stanzas 
in  MS.,  and  I  then  expressed  my  opinion  of  their  merit,  which  a 
further  perusal  of  the  printed  volume  has  given  me  no  reason  to  revoke. 
I  mention  this  as  it  may  not  be  disagreeable  to  you  to  learn  that  I  en- 
tertained a  very  favourable  opinion  of  your  power  before  I  was  aware 
that  such  sentiments  were  reciprocal. Waiving  your  obliging  ex- 
pressions as  to  my  own  productions,  for  which  I  thank  you  very 
sincerely,  and  assure  you  that  I  think  not  lightly  of  the  praise  of  one 
whose  approbation  is  valuable ;  will  you  allow  me  to  talk  to  you 
candidly,  not  critically,  on  the  subject  of  yours  ? — You  will  not  sus- 
pect me  of  a  wish  to  discourage,  since  I  pointed  out  to  the  publisher 
the  propriety  of  complying  with  your  wishes.  I  think  more  highly 
of  your  poetical  talents  than  it  would  perhaps  gratify  you  to  hear 
expressed,  for  I  believe,  from  what  I  observe  of  your  mind,  that  you 
are  above  flattery. — To  come  to  the  point,  you  deserve  success ;  but 
we  knew  before  Addison  wrote  his  Cato,  that  desert  does  not  always 
command  it.  But  suppose  it  attained  — 

'You  know  what  ills  the  author's  life  assail, 
Toil,  envy,  want,  the  patron,  and  the  jail.'— 

Do  not  renounce  writing,  but  never  trust  entirely  to  authorship.  If 
you  have  a  profession,  retain  it,  it  will  be  like  Prior's  fellowship,  a 
last  and  sure  resource. — Compare  Mr.  Rogers  with  other  authors  of 
the  day;  assuredly  he  is  among  the  first  of  living  poets,  but  is  it  to 
that  he  owes  his  station  in  society  and  his  intimacy  in  the  best  circles  ? 
no,  it  is  to  his  prudence  and  respectability.  The  world  (a  bad  one  I 
own)  courts  him  because  he  has  no  occasion  to  court  it. — He  is  a  poet, 
nor  is  he  less  so  because  he  was  something  more. — I  am  not  sorry  to 
hear  that  you  are  not  tempted  by  the  vicinity  of  Capel  Lorft,  Esq., 
though  if  he  had  done  for  you  what  he  has  for  the  Bloomfields  I  should 
never  have  laughed  at  his  rage  for  patronizing. — But  a  truly  well  con- 
stituted mind  will  ever  be  independent. — That  you  may  be  so  is  my 
sincere  wish ;  and  if  others  think  as  well  of  your  poetry  as  I  do, 
you  will  have  no  cause  to  complain  of  your  readers. — Believe  me, 
Your  obliged  and  obedient  Servant, 

BYRON." 


24  MEMOIR. 

"Throw  yourself  rather,  my  dear  Sir,  from  the  steep  Tar- 
peian  rock,  slap-dash  headlong  upon  iron  spikes.  If  you  have 
but  five  consolatory  minutes  between  the  desk  and  the  bed, 
make  much  of  them,  and  live  a  century  in  them,  rather  than 
turn  slave  to  the  booksellers.  They  are  Turks  and  Tartars  when 
they  have  poor  authors  at  their  beck.  Hitherto  you  have 
been  at  arm's  length  from  them.  Come  not  within  their  grasp. 
I  have  known  many  authors  want  for  bread  —  some  repining  — 
others  enjoying  the  blest  security  of  a  counting-house  —  all 
agreeing  they  would  rather  have  been  tailors,  weavers,  —  what 
not  1  —  rather  than  the  things  they  were.  I  have  known  some 
starved,  some  to  go  mad,  one  dear  friend  literally  dying  in  a 
workhouse.  You  know  not  what  a  rapacious,  dishonest  set  these 
booksellers  are.  Ask  even  Southey,  who  (a  single  case  almost) 
has  made  a  fortune  by  book-drudgery,  what  he  has  found  them. 
O  you  know  not,  may  you  never  know  !  the  miseries  of  subsisting 
by  authorship  !  'T  is  a  pretty  appendage  to  a  situation  like  yours 
or  mine ;  but  a  slavery  worse  than  all  slavery,  to  be  a  bookseller's 
dependant,  to  drudge  your  brains  for  pots  of  ale  and  breasts  of 
mutton,  to  change  your  free  thoughts  and  voluntary  numbers  for 
ungracious  task-work.  The  booksellers  hate  us.  The  reason  I 
take  to  be,  that,  contrary  to  other  trades,  in  which  the  master  gets 
all  the  credit,  (a  jeweller  or  silversmith  for  instance,)  and  the 
journeyman,  who  really  does  the  fine  work,  is  in  the  background : 
in  our  work  the  world  gives  all  the  credit  to  us,  whom  they  consi- 
der as  their  journeymen,  and  therefore  do  they  hate  us,  and  cheat 
us,  and  oppress  us,  and  would  wring  the  blood  out  of  us,  to  put 
another  sixpence  in  their  mechanic  pouches. 

****** 

"  Keep  to  your  bank,  and  the  bank  will  keep  you.  Trust  not  to 
the  public :  you  may  hang,  starve,  drown  yourself  for  any  thing 
that  worthy  personage  cares.  I  bless  every  star  that  Providence, 
not  seeing  good  to  make  me  independent,  has  seen  it  next  good  to 
settle  me  upon  the  stable  foundation  of  Leaderihall.  Sit  down,  good 
B.  B.,  in  the  banking  office :  what !  is  there  not  from  six  to  eleven, 
p.  M.,  six  days  in  the  week,  and  is  there  not  a.ll  Sunday  ?  Fie  ! 
what  a  superfluity  of  man's  time,  if  you  could  think  so !  Enough 
for  relaxation,  mirth,  converse,  poetry,  good  thoughts,  quiet 


MEMOIR.  25 

thoughts.  O  the  corroding,  torturing,  tormenting  thoughts  that 
disturb  the  brain  of  the  unlucky  wight,  who  must  draw  upon  it 
for  daily  sustenance !  Henceforth  I  retract  all  my  fond  complaints 
of  mercantile  employment  —  look  upon  them  as  lovers'  quarrels. 
I  was  but  half  in  earnest.  Welcome  dead  timber  of  a  desk  that 
gives  me  life.  A  little  grumbling  is  a  wholesome  medicine  for  the 
spleen,  but  in  my  inner  heart  do  I  approve  and  embrace  this  our 
close  but  unharassing  way  of  life.  I  am  quite  serious. 

Yours  truly, 

C.  LAMB." 


In  1824,  however,  his  income  received  a  handsome  addition 
from  another  quarter.  A  few  members  of  his  Society,  including 
some  of  the  wealthier  of  his  ovyn  family,  raised  £1200  among 
them  for  his  benefit.  Mr.  Shewell  of  Ipswich,  who  was  one  of 
the  main  contributors  to  this  fund,  writes  to  me  that  the  scheme 
originated  with  Joseph  John  Gurney : — "  one  of  those  innumerable 
acts  of  kindness  and  beneficence  which  marked  his  character,  and 
the  measure  of  which  will  never  be  known  upon  the  earth."  Nor 
was  the  measure  of  it  known  in  this  instance ;  for  of  the  large 
sum  that  he  handed  in  as  the  subscription  of  several,  Mr.  Shewell 
thinks  he  was  "  a  larger  donor  than  he  chose  to  acknowledge." 
The  money  thus  raised  was  vested  in  the  name  of  Mr.  Shewell, 
and  its  yearly  interest  paid  to  Bernard  Barton ;  till,  in  1839,  the 
greater  part  of  it  was  laid  out  in  buying  that  old  house  and  the 
land  around  it,  which  Mr.  Barton  so  much  loved  as  the  habitation 
of  his  wife's  mother,  Martha  Jesup.* 

It  seems  that  he  felt  some  delicacy  at  first  in  accepting  this 
munificent  testimony  which  his  own  people  offered  to  his  talents. 
But  here  again  Lamb  assisted  him  with  plain,  sincere,  and  wise 
advice. 

*  See  Letter  to  Mrs.  Sutton,  p.  77. 


26  MEMOIR. 

"March  24*A,1824. 

"  Dear  B.  B., 

I  hasten  to  say  that  if  my  opinion  can  strengthen  you 
in  your  choice,  it  is  decisive  for  your  acceptance  of  what  has 
been  so  handsomely  offered.  I  can  see  nothing  injurious  to 
your  most  honourable  sense.  Think  that  you  are  called  to  a 
poetical  ministry  —  nothing  worse  —  the  minister  is  worthy  of  his 
hire. 

"  The  only  objection  I  feel  is  founded  on  a  fear  that  the  ac- 
ceptance may  be  a  temptation  to  you  to  let  fall  the  bone  (hard 
as  it  is)  which  is  in  your  mouth,  and  must  afford  tolerable 
pickings,  for  the  shadow  of  independence.  You  cannot  propose 
to  become  independent  on  what  the  low  state  of  interest  could 
afford  you  from  such  a  principal  as  you  mention ;  and  the  most 
graceful  excuse  for  the  acceptance  would  be,  that  it  left  you  free 
to  your  voluntary  functions:  that  is  the  less  light  part  of  the 
scruple.  It  has  no  darker  shade.  I  put  in  darker,  because  of  the 
ambiguity  of  the  word  light,  which  Donne,  in  his  admirable  poem 
on  the  Metempsychosis,  has  so  ingeniously  illustrated  in  his  invo- 
cation— 

1  Make  my  dark  heavy  poem  light  and  light — ' 

where  the  two  senses  of  light  are  opposed  to  different  opposites. 
A  trifling  criticism.  —  lean  see  no  reason  for  any  scruple  then 
but  what  arises  from  your  own  interest ;  which  is  in  your  own 
power,  of  course,  to  solve.  If  you  still  have  doubts,  read  over 
Sanderson's  '  Cases  of  Conscience,'  and  Jeremy  Taylor's 

*  Ductor  Dubitantium ;'  the  first  a  moderate  octavo,  the  latter  a 
folio  of  nine   hundred   close   pages:   and  when  you  have   tho- 
roughly digested  the  admirable  reasons  pro  and  con  which  they 

give  for  every  possible  case,  you  will  be just  as  wise  as  when 

you  began.     Every  man  is  his  own  best  casuist ;  and,  after  all, 
as  Ephraim  Smooth,  in  the  pleasant  comedy  of  Wild  Oats,  has  it, 

*  There 's  no  harm  in  a  guinea.'     A  fortiori,  there  is  less  in  two 
thousand. 

"  I  therefore  most  sincerely  congratulate  with  you,  excepting 
so  far  as  excepted  above.  If  you  have  fair  prospects  of  adding 


MEMOIR.  27 

to  the  principal,  cut  the  bank ;  but  in  either  case,  do  not  refuse 
an  honest  service.  Your  heart  tells  you  it  is  not  offered  to  bribe 
you  from  any  duty,  but  to  a  duty  which  you  feel  to  be  your 
vocation. 

Farewell  heartily, 

C.  L." 

While  Mr.  Barton  had  been  busy  publishing,  his  correspond- 
ence with  literary  people  had  greatly  increased.  The  drawers 
and  boxes  which  at  last  received  the  overflowings  of  his  capa- 
cious Quaker  pockets,  (and  he  scarcely  ever  destroyed  a  letter,) 
contain  a  multitude  of  letters  from  literary  people,  dead  or 
living.  Beside  those  from  Southey  and  Lamb,  there  are  many 
from  Charles  Lloyd  —  simple,  noble,  and  kind,  telling  of  his 
many  Poems— of  a  Romance  in  six  volumes  he  was  then  copy- 
ing out  with  his  own  hand  for  the  seventh  time-; — from  old 
Lloyd,  the  father,  into  whose  hands  Barton's  letters  occasion- 
ally fell  by  mistake,  telling  of  his  son's  many  books,  but  "  that 
it  is  easier  to  write  them  than  to  gain  numerous  readers;" — 
from  old  Mr.  Plumptre,  who  mourns  the  insensibility  of  pub- 
lishers to  his  castigated  editions  of  Gay  and  Dibdin  —  leaving 
one  letter  midway,  to  go  to  his  "spring  task  of  pruning  the 
gooseberries  and  currants."  There  are  also  girlish  letters  from 
L.  E.  L. ;  and  feminine  ones  from  Mrs.  Hemans.  Of  living 
authors  there  are  many  letters  from  Mitford,  Bowring,  Conder, 
Mrs.  Opie,  C.  B.  Tayler,  the  Howitts,  &c. 

Owing  to  Mr.  Barton's  circumstances,  his  connexion  with  most 
of  these  persons  was  solely  by  letter.  He  went  indeed  occasion- 
ally to  Hadleigh,  where  Dr.  Drake  then  flourished,  and  Mr. 
Tayler  was  curate;  —  to  Mr.  Mitford's  at  Benhall  ;*  —  and  he 

*  Here  is  one  of  the  notes  that  used  to  call  B.  B.  to  Benhall  in 
those  days. 

"Benhall,  1820. 
"My  dear  Poet, 

We  got  your  note  to-day.  We  are  at  home  and  shall  be 
glad  to  see  you,  but  hope  you  will  not  swim  here ;  in  other  words, 
we  think  it  better  that  you  should  wait,  till  we  can  seat  you  under  a 
chestnut  and  listen  to  your  oracular  sayings.  We  hope  that,  like 


28  MEMOIR. 

visited  Charles  Lamb  once  or  twice  in  London  and  at  Islington. 
He  once  also  met  Southey  at  Thomas  Clarkson's  at  Playford,  in 
the  spring  of  1824.  But  the  rest  of  the  persons  whose  letters  I 
have  just  mentioned,  I  believe  he  never  saw.  And  thus  perhaps 
he  acquired  a  habit  of  writing  that  supplied  the  place  of  personal 
intercourse.  Confined  to  a  town  where  there  was  but  little  stirring 
in  the  literary  way,  he  naturally  travelled  out  of  it  by  letter,  for 
communication  on  those  matters;  and  this  habit  gradually  ex- 
tended itself  to  acquaintances  not  literary,  whom  he  seemed  as 
happy  to  converse  with  by  letter  as  face  to  face.  His  correspond- 
ence with  Mr.  Clemesha  arose  out  of  their  meeting  once,  and 
once  only,  by  chance  in  the  commercial  room  of  an  inn.  And 
with  Mrs.  Sutton,  who,  beside  other  matters  of  interest,  could 
tell  him  about  the  "North  Countrie,"  from  which  his  ancestors 
came,  and  which  he  always  loved  in  fancy,  (for  he  never  saw  it,) 
— he  kept  up  a  correspondence  of  nearly  thirty  years,  though  he 
and  she  never  met  to  give  form  and  substance  to  their  visionary 
conceptions  of  one  another. 

From  the  year  1828,  his  books,  as  well  as  his  correspondence 
with  those  "  whose  talk  was  of"  books,  declined ;  and  soon  after 
this  he  seemed  to  settle  down  contentedly  into  that  quiet  course 
of  life  in  which  he  continued  to  the  end.  His  literary  talents, 
social  amiability,  and  blameless  character,  made  him  respected, 
liked,  and  courted  among  his  neighbours.  Few,  high  or  low, 
but  were  glad  to  see  him  at  his  customary  place  in  the  bank, 
from  which  he  smiled  a  kindly  greeting,  or  came  down  with 

your  sister  of  the  woods,  you  are  in  full  song ;  she  does  not  print,  I 
think;  we  hope  you  do;  seeing  that  you  beat  her  in  sense,  though 
she  has  a  little  the  advantage  in  melody  Together  you  will  make  a 
pretty  duet  in  our  groves.  You  have  both  your  defects  ;  she  devours 
glow-worms,  you  take  snuff;  she  is  in  a  great  hurry  to  go  away, 
and  you  are  prodigious  slow  in  arriving;  she  sings  at  night,  when 
nobody  can  hear  her,  and  you  write  for  Ackermann,  which  nobody 
thinks  of  reading.  In  spite  of  all  this,  you  will  get  a  hundred  a  year 
from  the  king,  and  settle  at  Woodbridge ;  in  another  month,  she 
will  find  no  more  flies,  and  set  off  for  Egypt. 

Truly  yours, 

J.  M." 


MEMOIR.  29 

friendly  open  hand,  and  some  frank  words  of  family  inquiry — 
perhaps  with  the  offer  of  a  pinch  from  his  never-failing  snuff- 
box—  or  the  withdrawal  of  the  visitor,  if  more  intimate,  to  see 
some  letter  or  copy  of  verses,  just  received  or  just  composed,  or 
some  picture  just  purchased.  Few,  high  or  low,  but  were  glad 
to  have  him  at  their  tables ;  where  he  was  equally  pleasant  and 
equally  pleased,  whether  with  the  fine  folks  at  the  Hall,  or 
with  the  homely  company  at  the  Farm;  carrying  every  where 
indifferently  the  same  good  feeling,  good  spirits,  and  good  man- 
ners; and  by  a  happy  frankness  of  nature,  that  did  not  too 
precisely  measure  its  utterance  on  such  occasions,  checkering 
the  conventional  gentility  of  the  drawing-room  with  some 
humours  of  humbler  life,  which  in  turn  he  refined  with 
a  little  sprinkling  of  literature.  —  Now  too,  after  having 
long  lived  in  a  house  that  was  just  big  enough  to  sit  and  sleep 
in,  while  he  was  obliged  to  board  with  the  ladies  of  a  Quaker 
school  over  the  way,*  he  obtained  a  convenient  house  of 
his  own,  where  he  got  his  books  and  pictures  about  him. 
But,  more  than  all  this,  his  daughter  was  now  grown  up  to 
be  his  housekeeper  and  companion.  And  amiable  as  Bernard 
Barton  was  in  social  life,  his  amiability  in  this  little  tele  d  tele 
household  of  his  was  yet  a  fairer  thing  to  behold ;  so  completely 
was  all  authority  absorbed  into  confidence,  and  into  love — 

'  A  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, 
Ne'er  roughen'd  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks 
That  humour  interposed  too  often  makes," 

but  gliding  on  uninterruptedly  for  twenty  years,  until  death 
concealed  its  current  from  all  human  witness. 

In  earlier  life  Bernard   Barton  had  been  a  fair  pedestrian; 
and  was  fond  of  walking  over  to  the  house  of  his  friend  Arthur 


*  Where  he  writes  a  letter  one  day,  but  he  knows  not  if  intelligibly ; 
"for  all  hands  are  busy  around  me  to  clap,  to  starch,  to  iron,  to 
plait — in  plain  English,  'tis  washing-day  ;  and  I  am  now  writing  close 
to  a  table  on  which  is  a  basin  of  starch,  caps,  kerchiefs,  &c.,  and 
busy  hands  and  tongues  round  it." 

3* 


30  MEMOIR. 

BiddeH  at  Playford.  There,  beside  the  instructive  and  agree- 
able society  of  his  host  and  hostess,  he  used  to  meet  George 
Airy,  now  Astronomer  Royal,  then  a  lad  of  wonderful  pro- 
mise ;  with  whom  he  had  many  a  discussion  about  poetry,  and 
Sir  Walter's  last  new  novel,  a  volume  of  which  perhaps  the 
poet  had  brought  in  his  pocket.  Mr.  Biddell,  at  one  time,  lent 
him  a  horse  to  expedite  his  journeys  to  and  fro,  and  to  refresh 
him  with  some  wholesome  change  of  exercise.  But  of  that 
Barton  soon  tired.  He  gradually  got  to  dislike  exercise  very 
much;  and  no  doubt  greatly  injured  his  health  by  its  disuse. 
But  it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  having  spent  the  day  in 
the  uncongenial  task  of  "figure-work,"  as  he  called  it,  he  should 
covet  his  evenings  for  books,  or  verses,  or  social  intercourse. 
It  was  very  difficult  to  get  him  out  even  for  a  stroll  in  the  gar- 
den after  dinner,  or  along  the  banks  of  his  favourite  Deben  on 
a  summer  evening.  He  would,  after  going  a  little  way,  with 
much  humorous  grumbling  at  the  useless  fatigue  he  was  put 
to  endure,  stop  short  of  a  sudden,  and,  sitting  down  in  the  long 
grass  by  the  .river-side,  watch  the  tide  run  past,  and  the  well- 
known  vessels  gliding  into  harbour,  or  dropping  down  to  pursue 
their  voyage  under  the  stars  at  sea,  until  his  companions, 
returning  from  their  prolonged  walk,  drew  him  to  his  feet 
again,  to  saunter  homeward  far  more  willingly  than  he  set 
forth,  with  the  prospect  of  the  easy  chair,  the  book,  and  the 
cheerful  supper  before  him. 

His  excursions  rarely  extended  beyond  a  few  miles  round 
Woodbridge  —  to  the  vale  of  Dedham,  Constable's  birth-place 
and  painting-room;  or  to  the  neighbouring  sea-coast,  loved  for 
its  own  sake — and  few  could  love  the  sea  and  the  heaths  beside 
it  better  than  he  did  —  but  doubly  dear  to  him  from  its  associ- 
ation with  the  memory  and  poetry  of  Crabbe.  Once  or  twice 
he  went  as  far  as  Hampshire  on  a  visit  to  his  brother ;  arid  once 
he  visited  Mr.  W.  B.  Donne,  at  Mattishall,  in  Norfolk,  where 
he  saw  many  portraits  and  mementoes  of  his  favourite  poet 
Cowper,  Mr.  Donne's  kinsman.  That  which  most  interested 
him  there  was  Mrs.  Bodham,  ninety  years  old,  and  almost 
blind,  but  with  all  the  courtesy  of  the  old  school  about  her — 
once  the  "Rose"  whom  Cowper  had  played  with  at  Catfield 


• 

MEMOIR.  31 

parsonage  when  both  were  children  together,  artd  whom  until 
1790,  when  she  revived  their  acquaintance  by  sending  him  his 
mother's  picture,  he  had  thought  "  withered  and  fallen  from 
the  stalk."  Such  little  excursions  it  might  be  absurd  to  re- 
cord of  other  men ;  but  they  were  some  of  the  few  that  Ber- 
nard Barton  could  take,  and  from  their  rare  occurrence,  and 
the  simplicity  of  his  nature,  they  made  a  strong  impression 
upon  him. 

He  still  continued  to  write  verses,  as  well  on  private  occasions 
as  for  annuals;  and  in  1836  published  another  volume,  chiefly 
composed  of  such  fragments.  In  1845  came  out  his  last  volume; 
which  he  got  permission  to  dedicate  to  the  Queen.  He  sent 
also  a  copy  of  it  to  Sir  Robert  Peel,  then  prime  minister,  with 
whom  he  had  already  corresponded  slightly  on  the  subject  of 
the  income  tax,  which  Mr.  Barton  thought  pressed  rather 
unduly  on  clerks,  and  others,  whose  narrow  income  was  only 
for  life.  Sir  Robert  asked  him  to  dinner  at  Whitehall. — 
"Twenty  years  ago,"  writes  Barton,  "such  a  summons  had 
elated  and  exhilarated  me — now  I  feel  humbled  and  depressed 
at  it.  Why  1  —  but  that  I  verge  on  the  period  when  the  light- 
ing down  of  the  grasshopper  is  a  burden,  and  desire  itself  begins 
to  fail."  —  He  went,  however,  and  was  sincerely  pleased  with 
the  courtesy,  and  astonished  at  the  social  ease,  of  a  man  who 
had  so  many  and  so  heavy  cares  on  his  shoulders.  When  the 
Quaker  poet  was  first  ushered  into  the  room,  there  were  but 
three  guests  assembled,  of  whom  he  little  expected  to  know  one. 
But  the  mutual  exclamations  of  "  George  Airy  !"  and  "  Bernard 
Barton !"  soon  satisfied  Sir  Robert  as  to  his  country  guest's 
feeling  at  home  at  the  great  town  dinner. 

On  leaving  office  a  year  after,  Sir  Robert  recommended  him 
to  the  queen  for  an  annual  pension  of  £100 :  —  one  of  the  last 
acts,  as  the  retiring  minister  intimated,  of  his  official  career, 
and  one  he  should  always  reflect  on  with  pleasure. — B.  Barton 
gratefully  accepted  the  boon.  And  to  the  very  close  of  life  he 
continued,  after  his  fashion,  to  send  letters  and  occasional  poems 
to  Sir  Robert,  and  to  receive  a  few  kind  words  in  reply. 

In  1844  died  Bernard's  eldest  sister,  Maria  Hack.  She  was 
five  or  six  years  older  than  himself;  very  like  him  in  the  face ; 


32  MEMOIR. 

and  had  been  his  instructress  ("  a  sort  of  oracle  to  me,"  he  says) 
when  both  were  children.  "It  is  a  heavy  blow  to  me,"  he 
writes,  "for  Maria  is  almost  the  first  human  being  I  remember 
to  have  fondly  loved,  or  been  fondly  loved  by  —  the  only  living 
participant  in  my  first  and  earliest  recollections.  When  I  lose 
her,  I  had  almost  as  well  never  have  been  a  child ;  for  she  only 
knew  me  as  such  —  and  the  best  and  brightest  of  memories  are 
apt  to  grow  dim  when  they  can  no  more  be  reflected."  "  She 
was  just  older  enough  than  I,"  he  elsewhere  says,  "  to  recollect 
distinctly  what  I  have  a  confused  glimmering  of — about  our 
house  at  Hertford — even  of  hers  at  Carlisle." 

Mr.  Barton  had  for  many  years  been  an  ailing  man,  though 
he  never  was,  I  believe,  dangerously  ill  (as  it  is  called)  till  •  the 
last  year  of  his  life.  He  took  very  little  care  of  himself; 
laughed  at  all  rules  of  diet,  except  temperance ;  and  had  for 
nearly  forty  years,  as  he  said,  "  taken  almost  as  little  exercise 
as  a  mile-stone,  and  far  less  fresh  air."  Some  years  before  his 
death  he  had  been  warned  of  a  liability  to  disease  in  the  heart, 
an  intimation  he  did  not  regard,  as  he  never  felt  pain  in  that 
region.  Nor  did  he  to  that  refer  the  increased  distress  he  began 
to  feel  in  exertion  of  any  kind,  walking  fast  or  going  up-stairs, 
a  distress  which  he  looked  upon  as  the  disease  of  old  age,  and 
which  he  used  to  give  vent  to  in  half-humorous  groans,  that 
seemed  to  many  of  his  friends  rather  expressive  of  his  dislike  to 
exercise,  than  implying  any  serious  inconvenience  from  it.  But 
probably  the  disease  that  partly  arose  from  inactivity  now  be- 
came the  true  apology  for  it.  During  the  last  year  of  his  life,  too, 
some  loss  of  his  little  fortune,  and  some  perplexity  in  his  affairs, 
not  so  distressing  because  of  any  present  inconvenience  to  him- 
self, as  in  the  prospect  of  future  evil  to  one  whom  he  loved 
as  himself,  may  have  increased  the  disease  within  him,  and 
hastened  its  final  blow. 

Toward  the  end  of  1848  the  evil  symptoms  increased  much 
upon  him ;  and  shortly  after  Christmas,  it  was  found  that  the 
disease  was  far  advanced.  He  consented  to  have  his  diet  regu- 
lated; protesting  humorously  against  the  small  glass  of  small 
beer  allowed  him  in  place  of  the  temperate  allowance  of  gener- 
ous port,  or  ale,  to  which  he  was  accustomed.  He  fulfilled  his 


MEMOIR.  33 

daily  duty  in  the  bank,*  only  remitting  (as  he  was  peremptorily 
bid)  his  attendance  there  after  his  four  o'clock  dinner.f  And 
though  not  able  to  go  out  to  his  friends,  he  was  glad  to  see 
them  at  his  own  house  to  the  last. 

Here  is  a  letter,  written  a  few  days  before  his  death,  to  one  of 
his  kindest  and  most  hospitable  friends. 


"2  mo,  14,  1849. 
"  My  dear  old  Friend, 

Thy  home-brewed  has  been  duly  received,  and  I  drank 
a.  glass  yesterday  with  relish,  but  I  must  not  indulge  too  often 
—  for  I  make  slow  way,  if  any,  toward  recovery,  and  at  times 
go  on  puffing,  panting,  groaning,  and  making  a  variety  of 
noises,  not  unlike  a  loco-motive  at  first  starting;  more  to  give 
vent  to  my  own  discomfort,  than  for  the  delectation  of  those 
around  me.  So  I  am  not  fit  to  go  into  company,  and  cannot 
guess  when  I  shall.  However,  I  am  free  from  much  acute  suf- 
fering, and  not  so  much  hypp'd  as  might  be  forgiven  in  a  man 
who  has  such  trouble  about  his  breathing  that  it  naturally  puts 
him  on  thinking  how  long  he  may  be  able  to  breathe  at  all. 
But  if  the  hairs  of  one's  head  are  numbered,  so,  by  a  parity  of 
reasoning,  are  the  puffs  of  our  bellows.  I  write  not  in  levity, 
though  I  use  homely  words.  I  do  not  think  J sees  any 

*  He  had  written  of  himself,  some  years  before,  "I  shall  go  on 
making  figures  till  Death  makes  me  a  cipher." 

t  For  which  he  half  accused  himself  as  "  a  skulker."  And  of  late 
years,  when  the  day  account  of  the  bank  had  not  come  quite  right  by 
the  usual  hour  of  closing,  and  it  seemed  necessary  to  carry  on  busi- 
ness late  into  the  evening,  he  would  sometimes  come  up  wearied  to 
his  room,  saying — "Well,  we've  got  all  right  but  a  shilling,  and 
I 've  left  my  boys"  (as  he  called  the  younger  clerks)  "to  puzzle  that 
out."  But  even  then  he  would  get  up  from  "Rob  Roy,"  or  the 
"Antiquary,"  every  now  and  then,  and  go  to  peep  through  the  cur- 
tain of  a  window  that  opens  upon  the  back  of  the  bank,  and,  if  he 
saw  the  great  gas-lamp  flaming  within,  announce  with  a  half  comical 
sympathy,  that  they  were  still  at  it ;  or  when  the  lamp  was  at  last 
extinguished,  would  return  to  his  chair  more  happily,  now  that  his 
partners  were  liberated. 


34  MEMOIR. 

present  cause  of  serious  alarm,  but  I  do  not  think  he  sees,  on 
the  other  hand,  much  prospect  of  speedy  recovery,  if  of  entire 
recovery  at  all.  The  thing  has  been  coming  on  for  years ;  and 
cannot  be  cured  at  once,  if  at  all.  A  man  can't  poke  over  desk 
or  table  for  forty  years  without  putting  some  of  the  machinery 
of  the  chest  out  of  sorts.  As  the  evenings  get  warm  and  light 
we  shall  see  what  gentle  exercise  and  a  little  fresh  air  can  do. 
In  the  last  few  days  too  I  have  been  in  solicitude  about  a  little 
pet  niece  of  mine  dying,  if  not  dead,  at  York:  this  has  somewhat 
worried  me,  and  agitation  or  excitement  is  as  bad  for  me  as  work 
or  quickness  of  motion.  Yet,  after  all,  I  have  really  more  to  be 
thankful  for  than  to  grumble  about.  I  have  no  very  acute  pain, 
a  skeely  doctor,  a  good  nurse,  kind  solicitous  friends,  a  remission 
of  the  worst  part  of  my  desk  hours — so  why  should  I  fret  ?  Love 
to  the  younkers. 

Thine, 

B." 


On  Monday,  February  19,  he  was  unable  to  get  into  the 
bank,  having  passed  a  very  unquiet  night  —  the  first  night  of 
distress,  he  thankfully  said,  that  his  illness  had  caused  him. 
He  suffered  during  the  day ;  but  welcomed  as  usual  the  friends 
who  came  to  see  him  as  he  lay  on  his  sofa;  and  wrote  a  few 
notes  —  for  his  correspondence  must  now,  as  he  had  humor- 
ously lamented,  become  as  short-breathed  as  himself.  In  the 
evening,  at  half-past  eight,  as  he  was  yet  conversing  cheerfully 
with  a  friend,  he  rose  up,  went  to  his  bed-room,  and  suddenly 
rang  the  bell.  He  was  found  by  his  daughter  —  dying.  As- 
sistance was  sent  for ;  but  all  assistance  was  vain.  "  In  a  few 
minutes  more,"  says  the  note  despatched  from  the  house  of  death 
that  night,  "all  distress  was  over  on  his  part  —  and  that  warm 
kind  heart  is  still  for  ever." 


MEMOIR.  35 


The  Letters  and  Poems  that  follow  are  very  faithful  revelations 
of  Bernard  Barton's  soul ;  of  the  genuine  piety  to  God,  good-will 
to  men,  and  cheerful  guileless  spirit,  which  animated  him,  not 
only  while  writing  in  the  undisturbed  seclusion  of  the  closet,  but 
(what  is  a  very  different  matter)  through  the  walk  and  practice 
of  daily  life.  They  prove  also  his  intimate  acquaintance  with  the 
Bible,  and  his  deep  appreciation  of  many  beautiful  passages  which 
might  ©scape  a  common  reader. 

The  Letters  show,  that  while  he  had  well  considered,  and 
well  approved,  the  pure  principles  of  Quakerism,  he  was  equally 
liberal  in  his  recognition  of  other  forms  of  Christianity.  He 
could  attend  the  church,  or  the  chapel,  -if  the  meeting  were  not 
at  hand ;  and  once  assisted  in  raising  money  to  build  a  new  Estab- 
lished Church  in  Woodbridge.  And  while  he  was  sometimes 
roused  to  defend  Dissent  from  the  vulgar  attacks  of  High  Church 
and  Tory,*  he  could  also  give  the  bishops  a  good  word  when  they 
were  unjustly  assailed. 


*  Here  are  two  little  Epigrams  showing  that  the  quiet  Quaker  could 
strike,  though  he  was  seldom  provoked  to  do  so. 


DR.  E . 

"  A  bullying,  brawling  champion  of  the  Church ; 
Vain  as  a  parrot  screaming  on  her  perch  ; 
And,  like  that  parrot,  screaming  out  by  rote 
The  same  stale,  flat,  unprofitable  note; 
Still  interrupting  all  discreet  debate 
With  one  eternal  cry  of  '  Church  and  State  !' — 
With  all  the  High  Tory's  ignorance,  increased 
By  all  the  arrogance  that  marks  the  priest ; 
One  who  declares  upon  his  solemn  word, 
The  voluntary  system  is  absurd : 
He  well  may  say  so ;— for  't  were  hard  to  tell 
Who  would  support  him,  did  not  law  compel." 


36  MEMOIR. 

While  duly  conforming1  to  the  usages  of  his  Society  on  all 
proper  occasions,  he  could  forget  thee  and  thou  while  mixing 
in  social  intercourse  with  people  of  another  vocabulary,  and 
smile  at  the  Reviewer  who  reproved  him  for  using  the 
heathen  name  November  in  his  Poems.  "I  find,"  he  said, 
"these  names  of  the  months  the  prescriptive  dialect  of  poetry, 
used  as  such  by  many  members  of  our  Society  before  me  — 
'sans  peur  et  sans  reproche;'  and  I  use  them  accordingly, 
asking  no  questions  for  conscience'  sake,  as  to  their  origin. 
Yet  while  I  do  this,  I  can  give  my  cordial  tribute  of  ap- 
proval to  the  scruples  of  our  early  friends,  who  advocate  a 
simpler  nomenclature.  I  can  quite  understand  and  respect 
their  simplicity  and  godly  sincerity ;  and  I  conceive  that  I  have 
duly  shown  my  reverence  for  their  scruples  in  adhering  person- 
ally to  their  dialect,  and  only  using  another  poetically.  Ask  the 
British  Friend  the  name  of  the  planet  with  a  belt  round  it,  and 
he  would  say  Saturn ;  at  the  peril,  and  on  the  pain,  of  excommu- 
nication." 

As  to  his  politics,  he  always  used  to  call  himself  "  a  Whig  of 
the  old  school."  Perhaps,  like  most  men  in  easy  circumstances, 
he  grew  more  averse  to  change  as  he  grew  older.  He  thus 
writes  to  a  friend  in  1845,  during  the  heats  occasioned  by  the 
proposed  Repeal  of  the  Corn  Laws : — "  Queer  times  these,  and 
strange  events.  I  feel  most  shamefully  indifferent  about  the 
whole  affair :  but  my  political  fever  has  long  since  spent  itself. 


On  one  who  declared  in  a  public  speech — "  This  was  the  opinion  he 
had  formed  of  the  Dissenters ;  he  only  saw  in  them  wolves  in  sheep's 
clothing." 

"  '  Wolves  in  sheep's  clothing  !'  bitter  words  and  big; 

But  who  applies  them  ?  first  the  speaker  scan ; 
A  suckling  Tory  !  an  apostate  Whig ! 

Indeed,  a  very  silly,  weak  young  man ! 

"  What  such  an  one  may  either  think  or  say, 

With  sober  people  matters  not  one  pin ; 
In  their  opinion,  his  own  senseless  bray 

Proves  him  the  ASS  WRAPT  IN  A  LION'S  SKIN." 


MEMOIR.  37 

It  was  about  its  height  when  they  sent  Burdett  to  the  Tower. 
It  has  cooled  down  wonderfully  since  then.  He  went  there,  to 
the  best  of  my  recollection,  in  the  character  of  Burns's  Sir  Wil- 
liam Wallace — 

'  Great  patriot  hero — ill- requited  chief;' — 

and  dwindled  down  afterwards  to  *  Old  Glory.'  No  more  pa- 
triots for  me."  But  Bernard  Barton  did  not  trouble  himself 
much  about  politics.  He  occasionally  grew  interested  when  the 
interests  of  those  he  loved  were  at  stake ;  and  his  affections 
generally  guided  his  judgment.  Hence  he  was  always  against 
a  Repeal  of  the  Corn  Laws,  because  he  loved  Suffolk  farmers, 
Suffolk  labourers,  and  Suffolk  fields.  Occasionally  he  took  part 
in  the  election  of  a  friend  to  Parliament — writing  in  prose  or  verse 
in  the  county  papers.  And  here  also,  though  he  more  willingly 
sided  with  the  Liberal  interest,  he  would  put  out  a  hand  to  help 
the  good  old  Tory  at  a  pinch. 

He  was  equally  tolerant  of  men,  and  free  of  acquaintance. 
So  long  as  men  were  honest,  (and  he  was  slow  to  suspect  them 
to  be  otherwise,)  and  reasonably  agreeable,  (and  he  was  easily 
pleased,)  he  could  find  company  in  them.  "  My  temperament," 
he  writes,  "  is,  as  far  as  a  man  can  judge  of  himself,  eminently 
social.  .  I  am  wont  to  live  out  of  myself,  and  to  cling  to  any- 
thing or  anybody  loveable  within  my  reach."  I  have  before 
said  that  he  was  equally  welcome  and  equally  at  ease,  whether 
at  the  Hall  or  at  the  Farm ;  himself  indifferent  to  rank,  though 
he  gave  every  one  his  title,  not  wondering  even  at  those  of  his 
own  community,  who,  unmindful  perhaps  of  the  military  im- 
plication, owned  to  the  soft  impeachment  of  Esquire.  But  no 
where  was  he  more  amiable  than  in  some  of  those  humbler 
meetings  —  about  the  fire  in  the  keeping-room  at  Christinas,  or 
under  the  walnut-tree  in  summer.  He  had  his  cheerful  remem- 
brances with  the  old ;  a  playful  word  for  the  young  —  especially 
with  children,  whom  he  loved  and  was  loved  by.  —  Or,  on  some 
summer  afternoon,  perhaps,  at  the  little  inn  on  the  heath,  or  by 
the  river-side — or  when,  after  a  pleasant  pic-nic  on  the  sea-shore, 
4 


38  MEMOIR. 

we  drifted  homeward  up  the  river,  while  the  breeze  died  away 
at  sunset,  and  the  heron,  at  last  startled  by  our  gliding  boat, 
slowly  rose  from  the  ooze  over  which  the  tide  was  momentarily 
encroaching. 

By  nature,  as  well  as  by  discipline  perhaps,  he  had  a  great 
dislike  to  most  violent  occasions  of  feeling  and  manifestations  of 
it,  whether  in  real  life  or  story.  Many  years  ago  he  entreated 
the  author  of  "  May  you  like  it,"  who  had  written  some  tales  of 
powerful  interest,  to  write  others  "  where  the  appeals  to  one's 
feelings  were  perhaps  less  frequent  —  I  mean  one's  sympathetic 
feelings  with  suffering  virtue  —  and  the  more  pleasurable  emo- 
tions called  forth  by  the  spectacle  of  quiet,  unobtrusive,  domestic 
happiness  more  dwelt  on."  And  when  Mr.  Tayler  had  long  neg- 
lected to  answer  a  letter,  Barton  humorously  proposed  to  rob 
him  on  the  highway,  in  hopes  of  recovering  an  interest  by  crime 
which  he  supposed  every-day  good  conduct  had  lost.  Even  in 
Walter  Scott,  his  great  favourite,  he  seemed  to  relish  the  hu- 
morous parts  more  than  the  pathetic ;  —  Baillie  Nicol  Jarvie's 
dilemmas  at  Glennaquoich  rather  than  Fergus  Mac  Ivor's 
trial ;  and  Oldbuck  and  his  sister  Grizcl  rather  than  the  scenes 
at  the  fisherman's  cottage.  Indeed,  many,  I  dare  stcy,  of  those 
who  only  know  Barton  by  his  poetry,  will  be  surprised  to  hear  how 
much  humour  he  had  in  himself,  and  how  much  he  relished  it 
in  others.  Especially,  perhaps,  in  later  life,  when  men  have 
commonly  had  quite  enough  of  "domestic  tragedy,"  and  are 
glad  to  laugh  when  they  can. 

With  little  critical  knowledge  of  pictures,  he  was  very  fond 
of  them,  especially  such  as  represented  scenery  familiar  to  him 
—  the  shady  lane,  the  heath,  the  corn-field,  the  village,  the  sea- 
shore. And  he  loved  after  coming  away  from  the  bank  to  sit 
in  his  room  and  watch  the  twilight  steal  over  his  landscapes  as 
over  the  real  face  of  nature,  and  then  lit  up  again  by  fire  or 
candle  light.  Nor  could  any  itinerant  picture-dealer  pass  Mr. 
Barton's  door  without  calling  to  tempt  him  to  a  new  purchase. 
And  then  was  B.  B.  to  be  seen,  just  come  up  from  the  bank, 
with  broad-brim  and  spectacles  on,  examining  some  picture  set 
before  him  on  a  chair  in  the  most  advantageous  light;  the 


MEMOIR.  39 

dealer  recommending1,  and  Barton  wavering-,  until  partly  by 
money,  and  partly  by  exchange  of  some  older  favourites,  with 
perhaps  a  snuff-box  thrown  in  to  turn  the  scale ;  a  bargain  was 
concluded — generally  to  B.  B's  great  disadvantage  and  great 
content.  Then  friends  were  called  in  to  admire;  and  letters 
written  to  describe;  and  the  picture  taken  up  to  his  bed-room 
to  be  seen  by  candle  light  on  going  to  bed,  and  by  the  morning 
sun  on  awaking;  then  hung  up  in  the  best  place  in  the  best 
room ;  till  in  time  perhaps  it  was  itself  exchanged  away  for 
some  newer  favourite. 

He  was  not  learned  —  in  language,  science,  or  philosophy. 
Nor  did  he  care  for  the  loftiest  kinds  of  poetry — "  the  heroics." 
as  he  called  it.  His  favourite  authors  were  those  that  dealt 
most  in  humour,  good  sense,  domestic  feeling,  and  pastoral  de- 
scription —  Goldsmith,  Cowper,  Wordsworth  in  his  lowlier 
moods,  and  Crabbe.  One  of  his  favourite  prose  books  was  Bos- 
well's  Johnson ;  of  which  he  knew  all  the  good  things  by  heart, 
an  inexhaustible  store  for  a  country  dinner-table.*  And  many 
will  long  remember  him  as  he  used  to  sit  at  table,  his  snuff-box 
in  his  hand,  and  a  glass  of  genial  wine  before  him,  repeating 
some  favourite  passage,  and  glancing  his  fine  brown  eyes  about 
him  as  he  recited. 

But  perhaps  his  favourite  prose  book  was  Scott's  Novels. 
These  he  seemed  never  tired  of  reading,  and  hearing  read. 
During  the  last  four  or  five  winters  I  have  gone  through 
several  of  the  best  of  these  with  him  —  generally  on  one 
night  in  each  week  —  Saturday  night,  that  left  him  free  to 
the  prospect  of  Sunday's  relaxation.  Then  was  the  volume 
taken  down  impatiently  from  the  shelf  almost  before  tea  was 
over;  and  at  last,  when  the  room  was  clear,  candles  snuffed, 
and  fire  stirred,  he  would  read  out,  or  listen  to,  those  fine 
stories,  anticipating  with  a  glance,  or  an  impatient  ejaculation 
of  pleasure,  the  good  things  he  knew  were  coming  —  which  he 

*  He  used  to  look  with  some  admiration  at  an  ancient  fellow-towns- 
man, who,  beside  a  rich  fund  of  Suffolk  stories  vested  in  him,  had 
once  seen  Dr.  Johnson  alight  from  a  hackney-coach  at  the  Mitre. 


40  MEMOIR. 

liked  all  the  better  for  knowing  they  were  coming  —  relishing 
them  afresh  in  the  fresh  enjoyment  of  his  companion,  to  whom 
they  were  less  familiar;  until  the  modest  supper  corning  in 
closed  the  book,  and  recalled  him  to  his  cheerful  hospitality. 


Of  the  literary  merits  of  this  volume,  others,  less  biassed  than 
myself  by  personal  and  local  regards,  will  better  judge.  But  the 
Editor,  to  whom,  as  well  as  the  Memoir,  the  task  of  making  any 
observations  of  this  kind  usually  falls,  has  desired  me  to  say  a  few 
words  on  the  subject. 

The  Letters,  judging  from  internal  evidence  as  well  as  from 
all  personal  knowledge  of  the  author's  habits,  were  for  the  most 
part  written  off  with  the  same  careless  ingenuousness  that  char- 
acterised his  conversation.  "I  have  no  alternative,"  he  said, 
"  between  not  writing  at  all,  and  writing  what  first  comes  into 
my  head."  In  both  cases  the  same  cause  seems  to  me  to  produce 
the  same  agreeable  effect. 

The  Letters  on  graver  subjects  are  doubtless  the  result  of 
graver  "foregone  conclusion," — but  equally  spontaneous  in  point 
of  utterance,  without  any  effort  at  style  whatever. 

If  the  Letters  here  published  are  better  than  the  mass  of  those 
they  are  selected  from,  it  is  because  better  topics  happened 
to  present  themselves  to  one  who,  though  he  wrote  so  much, 
had  perhaps  as  little  of  new  or  animating  to  write  about  as  most 
men. 

The  Poems,  if  not  written  off  as  easily  as  the  Letters,  were 
probably  as  little  elaborated  as  any  that  ever  were  published. 
Without  claiming  for  them  the  highest  attributes  of  poetry, 
(which  the  author  never  pretended  to,)  we  may  surely  say  they 
abound  in  genuine  feeling  and  elegant  fancy  expressed  in  easy, 
and  often  very  felicitous,  verse.  These  qualities  employed  in 
illustrating  the  religious  and  domestic  affections,  and  the  pastoral 
scenery  with  which  such  affections  are  perhaps  most  generally 


MEMOIR.  41 

associated,  hare  made  Bernard  Barton,  as  he  desired  to  be,  a  house- 
hold poet  with  a  large  class  of  readers— a  class,  who,  as  they  may 
be  supposed  to  welcome  such  poetry  as  being  the  articulate  voice 
of  those  good  feelings  yearning  in  their  own  bosoms,  one  may 
hope  will  continue  and  increase  in  England. 

While  in  many  of  these  Poems  it  is  the  spirit  within  that 
redeems  an  imperfect  form — just  as  it  lights  up  the  irregular 
features  of  a  face  into  beauty  —  there  are  many  which  will 
surely  abide  the  test  of  severer  criticism.  Such  are  several 
of  the  Sonnets ;  which,  if  they  have  not  (and  they  do  not  aim 
at)  the  power  and  grandeur,  are  also  free  from  the  pedantic  stiff- 
ness of  so  many  English  Sonnets.  Surely  that  one  "To  my 
Daughter,"  (p.  209,)  is  very  bear  ui'ul  in  all  respects. 

Some  of  the  lighter  pieces — "To  Joanna,"  "To  a  young 
Housewife,"  &c..  partake  much  of  Cowper's  playful  grace.  And 
some  on  the  decline  of  life,  and  the  religious  consolations  attend- 
ing it,  are  very  touching. 

Charles  Lamb  said  the  verses  "To  the  Memory  of  Bloom- 
field  "  were  "  sweet  with  Doric  delicacy."  May  not  one  say  the 
same  of  those  "  On  Leiston  Abbey,"  "  Cowper's  Rural  Walks," 
on  "Some  Pictures,"  and  others  of  the  shorter  descriptive 
pieces]  Indeed,  utterly  incongruous  as  at  first  may  seem  the 
Quaker  clerk  and  the  ancient  Greek  Idyllist,  some  of  these 
little  poems  recall  to  me  the  inscriptions  in  the  Greek  An- 
thology —  not  in  any  particular  passages,  but  in  their  general  air 
of  simplicity,  leisurely  elegance,  and  quiet  unimpassioned  pensive- 
ness. 

Finally,  what  Southey  said  of  one  of  Barton's  volumes  — 
"  there  are  many  rich  passages  and  frequent  felicity  of  expres- 
sion " — may  modestly  be  said  of  these  selections  from  ten.  Not 
only  is  the  fundamental  thought  of  many  of  them  very  beauti- 
ful— as  in  the  poems,  "  To  a  Friend  in  Distress,"  "  The  Deserted 
Nest,"  "  Thought  in  a  garden,"  &c., — but  there  are  many  verses 
whose  melody  will  linger  in  the  ear,  and  many  images  that  will 
abide  in  the  memory.  Such  surely  are  those  of  men's  hearts 
brightening  up  at  Christmas  "like  a  fire  new  stirred,"  —  of  the 
stream  that  leaps  along  over  the  pebbles  "  like  happy  hearts 
4* 


42  MEMOIR. 

by  holiday  made  light,"  —  of  the  solitary  tomb  showing  from 
afar  like  a  lamb  in  the  meadow.  And  in  the  poem  called  "A 
Dream,"  —  a  dream  the  poet  really  had,  —  how  beautiful  is  that 
chorus  of  the  friends  of  her  youth  who  surround  the  central 
vision  of  his  departed  wife,  and  who,  much  as  the  dreamer 
wonders  they  do  not  see  she  is  a  spirit,  and  silent  as  she  remains 
to  their  greetings,  still  with  countenances  of  "  blameless  mirth," 
like  some  of  Correggio's  angel  attendants,  press  around  her  with- 
out awe  or  hesitation,  repeating  "  welcome,  welcome !"  as  to 
one  suddenly  returned  to  them  from  some  earthly  absence  only, 
and  not  from  beyond  the  dead — from  heaven. 

E.  F.  G. 


LETTERS. 

TO  THE  REV.  C.  B.  TAYLER. 

4  mo,  22,  1824. 

DEAR  CHARLES^ 

MY  head  and  heart  are  full  even  to  overflowing : 
my  eyes  are  almost  dim  with  gazing  at  one  object,  yet  are 
still  unsatisfied.  I  keep  thinking  of  one  thing  all  day, 
stealing  to  feast  my  eyes  on  it  when  I  can,  and  lie  down  to 
dream  of  it  o'  nights.  In  one  sentence,  my  good  cousins 
at  Carlisle  have  sent  me  my  dear,  dear  father's  picture. 
It  is  in  most  excellent  preservation,  not  at  all  injured  by 
the  journey,  and  I  write  to-night  to  a  friend  in  town  to 
arrange  for  its  being  neatly  framed.  But  I  must  de- 
scribe it. 

Its  size  is  about  four  and  a  half  by  rather  more  than 
three  and  a  half  feet; — how  I  wish  our  parlour  were  a  little 
larger!  My  dear  pater  is  seated  at  a  round  table,  his 
elbow  resting  on  it,  and  his  right  hand  as  if  partly  sup- 
porting his  head;  the  little  finger  folded  down,  the  two 
fore  ones  extended  up  to  his  temple.  Before  him  is  a  sheet 
of  paper,  headed  "Abstract  of  Locke;"  the  chapter  on 
Perception,  and  the  first  volume  of  Locke,  open,  is  on  his 
left  hand,  on  his  knee.  His  countenance  is  full  of  thought, 

(43) 


44  LETTERS. 

yet  equally  full  of  sweetness.  What  an  ugly  fellow  I -am 
compared  to  him !  A  little  further  on  the  table  is  a  Ger- 
man flute,  and  a  piece  of  HandeFs  music,  open,  leaning 
against  Akenside's  Pleasures  of  Imagination.  A  larger 
volume  also  lies  on  the  table,  lettered  "Kenrick's  Dic- 
tionary/' and  several  letters,  the  date  of  one  of  which,  at 
the  bottom,  is  March,  1774.  (I  conclude  the  picture  was 
painted  then.)  In  the  corner,  just  below  the  table,  stands 
a  globe.  On  the  book-shelves  behind  him  are,  first,  a 
volume  —  the  first  line  of  the  title  I  can't  make  out  — 
"on  Euclid;"  then,  I  think,  "Simpson's  Algebra," 
"  Fitzosborne's  Letters,"  another  book  lettered,  I  think, 
"  Verularu,"  "  Fordyce,"  Pope's  Works,"  "  Dictionary  of 
Arts  and  Sciences,"  two  or  three  volumes.  The  titles 
of  the  upper  row  of  books  are  hid  by  a  sort  of  curtain. 
An  open  window  on  the  other  side  of  the  table  gives 
a  peep  of  sun-set  sky.  His  dress  is  a  suit  of  so  red  a 
brown  as  almost  to  approach  to  crimson;  his  hair  turned 
back  from  a  fine  clear  forehead,  with  a  curl  over  each  ear, 
and  tied  in  a  sort  of  club  behind :  the  rufflles  at  his  wrists, 
as  well  as  a  frill,  to  say  nothing  of  the  flute,  show  that  he 
had  not  then  joined  the  Quakers.  His  age  when  this  pic- 
ture was  taken  I  suppose  about  twenty.  I  think  I  under- 
stand it  was  the  year  before  his  marriage.  His  countenance 
is  all  I  could  wish  it  —  (delicately  fair,  which  I  had  always 
heard,  and  rather  small  features)  —  in  the  bloom  of  youth, 
yet  thoughtful  —  to  me  full  of  intellect  and  benignity.  O 
how  proud  I  am  of  him !  —  how  thankful  I  am  that  I  have 
written  what  good-natured  critics  call  poetry!  for  to  my 
poetical  fame,  humble  as  it  is,  I  owe  the  possession  of  this, 
to  me,  inestimable  treasure.  It  has  put  me  all  but  beside 
myself;  I  go  and  look  at  it,  then  stand  a  little  further  off, 
then  nearer,  then  try  it  in  a  new  light  —  then  go  to  the 


TO     THE     REV.     C.     B.     TAYLER.  45 

street  door  to  see  if  any  body  be  in  sight  who  can  at  all 
value  its  beauties,  and  enter  into  my  feelings  —  if  so,  I  lug 
them  in,  incontinently.  My  goed  mother-in-law,  I  mean 
my  wife's  mother,  a  plain,  excellent  Quaker  lady,  who,  I 
dare  say,  never  went  any  where  to  look  at  a  picture  before, 
has  been  to  see  it;  she  thinks  she  sees  a  likeness  to  my 
girl  in  it.  I  wish  I  could  —  but  I  quite  encourage  her  in 
doing  so :  my  girl  will  never  be  half  so  handsome,  though 
far  more  personable  than  her  father.  But  she  cannot  come 
up  to  her  grandfather.  I  must  stop  some  where,  so  I  may 
as  well  now.  I  make  no  excuses,  I  will  not  so  far  affront 
thee.  I  conjecture  what  thy  feelings  would  be  hadst  thou 
lost  a  father  at  the  age  I  was  when  deprived  of  mine,  hadst 
thou  always  heard  him  spoken  of  as  one  of  the  most  ami- 
able, and  intelligent,  and  estimable  of  men,  yet  been  unable 
to  picture  to  thyself  what  his  outward  semblance  was;  — 
then  thirty  years  and  more  after  his  death,  to  hear  that  a 
portrait  of  him,  stated  by  those  who  knew  him  to  be  a 
likeness,  was  in  existence,  yet  almost  to  despair  of  ever 
seeing  it,  without  travelling  hundreds  of  miles  —  I,  too, 
who  have  little  more  locomotion  than  a  cabbage ;  and  after 
all  to  be  its  possessor! 


1825. 

ONE  or  two  of  my  literary  friends  do  not  like  my 
Vigils  so  well  as  its  precursors — they  say  it  is  too  Quakerish. 
Charles  Lamb  says  it  is  my  best,  but  that  I  have  lugged  in 
religion  rather  too  much.  Bowring  vituperates  it  in  toto 
—  save  the  Ode  to  Time ;  by  no  means  a  great  favourite 


46  LETTERS. 

with  me.  I  am  not  put  out  of  conceit  with  it  yet,  for  all 
this.  Its  faults  are  numerous,  but  it  has  more  redeeming 
parts  than  either  of  its  predecessors.  And  so  it  ought j 
else  I  had  lived  two  years  for  nothing.  As  to  its  Quaker- 
ism, I  meant  it  should  be  Quakerish.  I  hope  to  grow 
more  so  in  my  next  —  else,  why  am  I  a  Quaker?  My  love 
to  the  whole  visible,  ay,  and  the  whole  invisible  church  of 
Christ,  is  not  lessened  by  increased  affection  to  the  little 
niche  of  it  in  which  I  may  happen  to  be  planted.  The  bird 
would  not  mourn  the  less  the  fall  of  the  tree  which  held 
its  nest,  because  in  that  nest  was  found  the  first  and  pri- 
mary source  of  its  own  little  hopes  and  fears.  How  absurdly 
some  people  think  and  reason  about  sectarianism !  In  its 
purer  and  better  element,  it  is  no  bad  thing — not  a  bit  worse 
than  patriotism,  which  need  never  damp  the  most  generous 
and  enlarged  philanthrophy.  When  I  no  longer  love  thee, 
dear  Charles,  because  thou  art  a  Churchman,  I  will  begin  to 
think  my  Quakerism  is  degenerating. 


1825. 

I  MET  with  a  comical  adventure  the  other  day,  which 
partly  amused,  partly  piqued  me.  We  had  a  religious 
visit  paid  to  our  little  meeting  here  by  a  minister  of  our 
Society,  an  entire  stranger,  I  believe,  to  every  one  in  the 
meeting.  He  gave  us  some  very  plain,  honest  counsel. 
After  meeting,  as  is  usual,  several,  indeed  most,  Friends 
stopped  to  shake  hands  with  our  visitor,  I  among  the  rest ; 
and  on  my  name  being  mentioned  to  him,  rather  officiously 
I  thought,  by  one  standing  by,  the  good  old  man  said, 


TO     THE     REV.     C.     B.     TAYLER.  47 

"Barton? — Barton? — that's  a  name  I  don't  recollect."  I 
told  him  it  would  be  rather  strange  if  he  did,  as  we  had 
never  seen  each  other  before.  Suddenly,  when,  to  my  no 
small  gratification,  no  one  was  attending  to  us,  he  looked 
rather  inquiringly  at  me,  and  added,  "  What,  art  thou  the 
Versifying  Man  ?"  On  my  replying  with  a  gravity,  which 
I  really  think  was  heroic,  that  I  was  called  such,  he  looked 
at  me  again,  I  thought  "more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger," 
and  observed,  "Ah!  that's  a  thing  quite  out  of  my  way." 
It  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  to  reply,  "I  dare  say  it 
is,"  —  but,  afraid  that  I  could  not  control  my  risible  facul- 
ties much  longer,  I  shook  my  worthy  friend  once  more  by 
the  hand,  and  bidding  him  farewell,  left  him.  I  dare  say 
the  good  soul  may  have  since  thought  of  me,  if  at  all,  with 
much  the  same  feelings  as  if  I  had  been  bitten  by  a  mad  dog 
— and  I  know  not  but  that  he  may  be  very  right. 


2  mo,  16,  1826. 
My  DEAR  CHARLES, 

ON  behalf  of  Ann,  who,  I  am.  sorry  to  say,  is 
not  well  enough  to  write  herself,  I  am  requested  to  say 
that  we  are  quite  unable  to  recommend  thee  a  cook  of 
any  kind :  as  to  Quaker  cooks,  they  are  so  scarce  that  we 
Quakerly  folk  are  compelled  to  call  in  the  aid  of  the 
daughters  of  the  land  to  dress  our  own  viands,  or  cook 
them  ourselves,  as  well  as  we  can.  But  what,  my  dear 
friend,  could  put  it  into  thy  head  to  think  of  a  Quaker 
cook,  of  all  non-descripts  ?  Charles  Lamb  would  have  told 
thee  better :  he  says  he  never  could  have  relished  even  the 
salads  Eve  dressed  for  the  angels  in  Eden  —  his  appetite  is 


48  LETTERS. 

too  highly  excited  "  to  sit  a  guest  with  Daniel  at  his  pulse." 

—  Go  to !  thou  art  a  wag,  Charles ;  and  this  is  only  a  sly 
way  of  hinting  that  we  are  fond  of  good  living.     But  per- 
haps, after  all,  more  of  compliment  than  of  inuendo  is  im- 
plied in  the  proposition.     Thou  thoughtest  we  were  civil, 
cleanly,  quiet,  &c.,  all  excellent  qualities,  doubtless,  in  wo- 
men of  all  kinds,  cooks  not  excluded.     But,  my  dear  friend, 
I   should  be  sorry  the  reputation  of  our  sect  for  the  pos- 
session of  these  qualities  should  be  exposed  to  the  contin- 
gent vexations   which   culinary  mortals   are   especially  ex- 
posed  to.     "A   cook   whilst   cooking   is   a   sort   of  fury," 
says  the  old  poet.     Ay !  but  not  a  Quaker  cook,  at  least  in 
the  favourable  and  friendly  opinion  of  Adine  and  thyself: 

—  we  are  very  proud  of  that  good  opinion,  and  I  would  not 
risk  its  forfeiture  by  sending  one  of  our  sisterhood  to  thee 
as  cook.     Suppose  an  avalanche  of  soot  to  plump  down  the 
chimney  the  first  gala-day  —  'twould   be   cook-ship   versus 
Quaker-ship,   whether   the   poor   body   kept    her   sectarian 
serenity  unruffled ;  and  suppose  the  beam  kicked  the  wrong 
way,   what   would   become    of    all    our   reputation   in   the 
temporary   good   opinion   of  Adine   and   thee?      But,    all 
badinage   apart,  even    in   our  own  Society  there  are  com- 
paratively few  who  are   in   the   situation   of  domestic   ser- 
vants, and  I  never  remember  but  one  in  the  peculiar  office 
referred  to.     I  much  doubt  whether  one  could  be  found  at 
all  likely  to  suit  you;    and  I  have  little  doubt  that  you 
may  suit  yourselves  much  better  out  of  our  sisterhood  than 
in  it. 


TO    THE    REV.     C.     B.     TAYLER.  49 

2  mo,  23  1846. 
DEAR  CHARLES, 

I  TOOK  up  by  mere  accident  the  other  evening 
thy  two  volumes  of  "  May  you  Like  it,"  given  me  by  thee, 
as  they  respectively  appeared  many  years  ago;  and  I  laid 
them  down  not  until  I  had  fairly  read  them  through. 
The  Tales  themselves,  and  thy  handwriting  in  the  title- 
page  of  each,  sent  my  thoughts  back  to  long  by-gone 
years,  and  to  old  places  unvisited  by  me  now  for  many  a 
day;  pleasant  companions  now  in  their  graves,  or  far  dis- 
persed; and  a  few  social  parties  whom  I  can  never  hope 
again  to  fall  in  with.  I  wonder  if  any  days  of  lang  syne 
at  Hadleigh  ever  recur  to  thee,  as  they  have  done  to  me 
within  the  last  three  days.  The  cheerful,  benevolent 
Doctor  Drake,  his  lady,  and  Mary;  the  blind  aged  mother 
of  Mrs.  D.  —  Rose,  I  think  her  name  was.  Then,  too,  a 
glimmering  recollection  of  the  somewhat  pompous,  but 
good-tempered  in  the  main,  Dr.  Drummond,  recurs  to  me  — 
our  morning  visit  to  his  study,  or  library,  whichever  he 
called  it,  in  the  room  over  the  gateway.  I  do  not  know  why, 
but  I  always  fancied  Dr.  Johnson's  Ashbourne  friend, 
Taylor,  might  have  been  a  sort  of  double  of  our  friend  the 
Hadleigh  Rector  —  only,  I  think  the  Ashbourne  Doctor 
wore  a  reverend  wig;  and  I  have  a  clear  recollection  of 
our  friend's  bald  forehead.  Then  I  have  a  reminiscence 
of  a  morning  call  on  thy  mother  and  sisters,  and  seeing 
the  first  tuberose  I  ever  saw,  in  your  parlour;  and 
did  we  not  make  a  large  tea-party  there,  filling  every 
nook  and  cranny  of  the  room?  and  did  not  A —  play 
and  sing  to  us?  or  is  it  all  a  dream?  But  it  was  no 
dream,  that  walk  of  ours  to  Aldham  —  and  our  poring  over 
that  old  stone  at  the  foot  of  the  obelisk,  with  its  rude  in- 

5 


50  LETTERS. 

scription.  Another  ramble,  too,  over  some  heathy  or  furzy 
hill,  where  we  looked  down  on  "Hadley  in  the  Hole,"  and 
traced  the  windings  of  that  brooklet,  called  by  courtesy  a 
river  —  the  Brett,  or  Breta,  I  forget  which  they  called  it. 
If  my  memory  err  not,  little  Clarke  (Bran white)  was  with 
us  on  that  occasion  —  he  whom  the  Eclectic  Review  ma- 
liciously wrote  of  when  they  said  they  did  not  dispute  his 
right  to  the  title  of  M.  A.,  the  art  of  poetry  only  being  ex- 
cepted.  But  he  wrote  pleasing  verse  despite  their  cavils.  — 
Well,  my  dear  Charles,  I  have  now  given  vent  to  some  of 
the  thoughts  and  feelings  those  two  little  tomes  have  called 
up  j  if  they  dwell  with  thee  as  with  me  —  I  speak  of  my 
poor  "  shadowy  recollections,"  as  the  Daddy*  calls  them  — 
thou  wilt  more  than  forgive  their  revival.  Dear  love  to  A. 
and  thyself. 

Thine  affectionately, 

B.  B. 


*  A  playful    name    for  Wordsworth    among    some   of  B.  B.'s 
friends. 


TO  MRS.   SHAWE. 


Woodbridge,  3  mo,  2,  1837. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

I  OWE  thee  a  long  letter  in  return  for  a  very 
long  and  delightful  one,  on  the  subject  of  lectures  for  Me- 
chanics7 Institutes :  and  after  a  month's  silence,  I  sit  down 
to  pay  thee  in  what  Elia  would  have  called  bad  coin,  alias 
a  letteret;  but  the  fact  is,  I  have  been,  exclusive  of  my 
ordinary  desk-work,  rather  extraordinarily  engaged  since  the 
receipt  of  thine. 

I  have,  or  had,  two  aged  uncles,  male  aunts  Lamb  used 
to  call  'em;  not  uncles  of  mine  exactly,  but  of  Lucy's 
mother.  Just  after  the  receipt  of  thy  last,  I  had  an  inti- 
mation that  one  of  them,  who  lives  at  Leiston  Abbey,  had 
been  alarmingly  ill,  and  the  next  Sunday  I  posted  down  to 
see  him.  The  day  I  spent  with  him,  his  younger  brother, 
of.  seventy-five,  died.  As  he  was  my  old  master,  to  whom  I 
served  a  seven  years'  apprenticeship,  I  went  the  following 
Sabbath  into  Essex,  well-nigh  forty  miles,  to  his  funeral; 
that  is,  I  went  on  the  day  before,  and  returned  the  day  after ; 
and  the  next  Sabbath  I  went  again  to  his  surviving  brother, 
of  seventy-nine,  to  tell  him  all  about  who  was  present  at  a 
ceremony  which  his  bodily  infirmities  had  prevented  him 
from  attending. 

(51) 


52  LETTERS. 

Now,  when  it  is  taken  into  account  that  year  in  and  year 
out  I  rarely  go  farther  from  home  than  Kesgrave  one  way, 
and  Wickham  the  other,  this  unwonted  change  of  locality 
has  put  my  personal  identity  in  some  jeopardy.  And 
never  did  I  feel  more  inclined  to  call  in  question  that  same, 
than  in  paying  the  last  mark  of  respect  to  my  old  master. 
The  town,  a  little  quiet  country  one,  about  thirteen  miles 
sideways  of  Colchester,  was  one  in  which  during  eight 
years  I  saw  little  or  no  change.  Thirty-one  years  after,  I 
walked  there  as  in  a  dream ;  the  names  over  all  the  shop- 
doors  were  changed,  the  people  were  not  the  same,  the 
houses,  or  most  of  them,  were  altered.  It  was  only  the 
aspect  of  the  country  round,  and  the  position  of  the  main 
street,  which  I  seemed  to  recognise  as  the  same.  The  old 
market-place,  a  piece  of  rude  and  simple  architecture,  which 
looked  as  if  it  might  have  grown  there  in  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth,  and  stood  just  opposite  to  our  shop-door,  was 
pulled  down,  and  its  place  supplied  by  a  pyramidal  obelisk, 
bearing  three  gas  lamps  —  gas!  a  thing  the  good  folks 
there,  I  will  answer  for  it,  had  scarce  heard  of  thirty  years 
ago.  Out  on  such  new-fangled  innovations!  Had  I  been 
apprenticed  in  London  I  should  have  thought  nothing  of 
it ;  but  in  a  little  obscure  place  like  Halstead,  a  spot  where 
all  seemed  changeless  during  my  eight  years'  sojourn,  I  was 
fairly  posed.  Bear  in  mind  that  I  was  there  from  fourteen 
to  twenty-two  —  knew,  and  was  known  by,  everybody, 
and  was  as  familiar  with  all  around  me  as  with  the  features 
of  my  own  face.  Yet  I  stood  as  a  stranger  in  a  strange 
place,  with  just  enough  surviving  marks  of  recognisance 
to  perplex  and  bewilder  me.  From  fourteen  to  twenty- 
two  is  the  very  era  of  castle-building,  and  mine  were  dis- 
solved in  air  by  my  return  to  the  site  of  their  erection.  No 
wonder  that  it  has  taken  me  all  the  time  since  my  return  to 


TO     MRS.     SH  A  WE.  53 

become  myself  again,  and  that  I  have  felt  unequal  to  any 
letterizing. 


9  mo,  1,  1837. 

MY  only  remaining  near  Quaker  relative,  my 
sister  Lizzy  —  a  discreet,  sedate,  and  deliberate  spinster 
of  sixty  or  more,  with  a  head  as  white  as  snow,  has  gone 
over  to  your  church,  having  received  the  ordinances  of 
Baptism  and  the  Supper  from  my  nephew,  a  clergyman, 
who  married  my  sister  Hack's  eldest  daughter.  My  sister 
H.  herself  had  been  previously  baptized,  three  of  her 
children  had  long  before  done  the  same;  my  brother  and 
his  family  are  all  Church-folk,  Lucy  the  same,  and  I  am 
now  almost  the  sole  representative  of  my  father's  house, 
quite  the  only  one  of  his  children,  left  as  an  adherent  to 
the  creed  he  adopted  from  a  conscientious  conviction  of 
its  truth.  I  am  left  all  alone,  like  Goldsmith's  old  widow 
in  the  Deserted  Village,  looking  for  water-cresses  in  the 
brook  of  Auburn.  Lucy  tells  me  I  must  turn  too,  but  un- 
fortunately, all  the  results  of  my  reading,  reasoning,  re- 
flection, observation,  and  feeling,  make  me  more  and 
more  attached  to  my  old  faith.  It  seems  only  rendered 
dearer  to  me  by  the  desertion  of  those  whom  I  most  love. 
Yet  I  love  them  not  a  whit  the  less  for  abandoning  it ;  be- 
lieving as  I  do,  that  they  have  done  so  on  principle.  Still, 
principle  on  their  part  could  be  no  warrant  for  a  want  of 
it  on  mine;  so  I  must  e'en  be  a  Quaker  still.  But  the 
change  of  my  dear,  good,  and  orderly  old  maiden  sister,  in 
whom  I  thought  there  was  no  variableness  nor  shadow  of 
5* 


54  LETTERS. 

turning,  is  the  last  I  should  have  ever  dreamt  of,  and  I 
mourn  over  and  marvel  at  it  by  turns.  The  first  feeling, 
however,  will  soon  subside,  for  I  neither  feel  nor  affect  any 
horror  of  the  rites  and  ordinances  of  your  church,  though 
I  cannot  regard  them  as  essential.  I  as  firmly  believe  that 
there  is  a  baptism  which  doth  now  save  —  a  supper  of  the 
Lamb,  whereof  all  the  living  members  of  the  Church  must 
and  do  partake  —  as  any  Churchman  can  do :  but  I  still 
retain  my  conviction  that  water  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  first,  nor  outward  bread  and  wine  with  the  last,  in  the 
simple,  spiritual,  and  sublime  dispensation  of  the  gospel. 
Such,  my  dear  friend,  is  my  creed  touching  ordinances  — 
while  it  is  such,  I  must  still  remain, 

Thy  affectionate,  though  Quakerish  friend, 

B.  B. 


9  mo,  26,  1837. 

HAVE  I  written  to  thee  since  I  received  the  in- 
telligence of  my  dear  and  good  spinster  sister  having 
thought  it  her  duty,  at  near  sixty,  to  become  a  proselyte  to 
your  Church,  and  with  her,  three  other  relations  of  ours  at 
Chichester?  about,  I  should  think,  a  fourth  or  fifth  of 
their  Lilliputian  congregation  there.  I  can  only  marvel 
and  mourn  at  such  changes;  my  own  Quakerism  clings  to 
me  all  the  closer.  An  instance,  here  and  there,  of  a  change 
of  religious  opinion,  even  in  riper  years,  I  could  suppose  to 
be  the  result  of  calm  sober  inquiry  into  doctrines  taken  on 
trust  from  mere  education,  and  into  which  little,  if  any, 
inquiry  has  been  seriously  made;  though  even  this  con- 


TOMRS.SHAWE.  55 

elusion  implies  no  compliment  to  reflecting  persons,  who 
certainly  ought,  be  their  faith  what  it  may,  to  know  what 
it  is,  and  why  they  hold  it.  But  these  secessions  by  the 
lump,  this  flocking  off  by  families,  looks  to  me  more  like  an 
epidemic  disease,  than  the  result  of  a  patient  inquiry  and 
a  deliberate  conviction.  I  can  always  hear  with  pleasure 
of  the  conversion  of  a  Jew,  a  pagan,  or  an  infidel  to  a  be- 
lief in  Christianity;  it  is  a  step  in  advance  in  the  only 
true  and  saving  knowledge,  a  soul  brought  out  of  the  dark- 
ness of  ignorance  into  the  glorious  light  of  the  gospel. 
But  a  change  from  one  form  or  profession  of  Christian 
faith  to  another,  believing  as  I  do  that  each  and  all  em- 
brace all  knowledge  necessary  to  salvation,  is  not  with  me 
a  matter  of  much  cause  of  congratulation.  With  all  my 
own  penchant  for  my  own  "  ism,"  I  am  not  one  of  those 
who  would  compass  sea  and  land  to  gain  proselytes  to  it ; 
for  principles  of  belief,  modes  of  faith,  are  not  with  me 
things  to  be  put  on  and  off  like  a  change  of  apparel.  They 
go  far  to  make  up  the  identity  of  those  who  hold  them,  and 
I  get  puzzled,  bewildered,  and  I  know  not  what,  among  old 
friends  with  new  faces.  My  Lucy  was,  comparatively,  a 
chit  when  she  apostatized  (I  don't  use  the  word  in  its 
malignant  sense) ;  it  was  conceivable  that  her  thoughts  had 
not  been  before  seriously  turned  to  these  topics,  not  mar- 
vellous that  then  first  searching  into  them  she  should  come 
to  a  conclusion  differing  from  my  own.  But  a  new  light 
dawning  on  well-taught,  well-trained,  serious,  and  reflective 
minds,  at  more  than  fifty,  to  whom  the  oracles  of  Holy 
Writ  have  always  been  open,  and  whom  I  know  to  have 
been  daily  students  therein,  is  a  sort  of  anomaly  I  cannot 
understand. 


56  LETTERS. 

Note.  —  Mr.  Barton   had   previously  written    to  Mrs.  Sutton,  his 
Quaker  correspondent : — 

12  mo,  16,  1834. 

[I  SOMETIMES  think  that  if  Lucy,  as  well  as  a  few 
others  who  have  left  us,  I  believe  from  sincere  but  mis- 
taken apprehension  of  duty,  could  have  been  content  when 
they  first  doubted,  to  have  looked  more  inward  and  less 
outward ;  they  might  have  found  the  object  of  their  search 
without  any  separation  from  their  early  friends.  When 
the  woman  in  the  parable  had  lost  the  piece  of  silver,  she 
did  not  go  out  to  seek  for  it,  but  lighted  a  candle  and 
swept  her  own  house,  and  searched  diligently  till  she  found 
it;  and  I  believe  her  case  is  applicable  to  many  of  the 
seekers  after  good  even  to  the  present  day.  But  I  readily 
allow  that  different  minds,  different  dispositions,  and  di- 
versified views,  may  require  different  training  —  it  was  not 
intended  we  should  all  see  eye  to  eye ;  we  must  bear  and 
forbear;  for  truly  we  shall  all  need  it,  at  no  distant  day, 
when  we  shall  be  called  upon  to  give  an  account  of  the 
time  and  talents  intrusted  to  us  individually,  and  of  their  use 
or  abuse.] 


12  mo,  5,  1837. 

IN  one  respect  the  work  itself,*  and  my  office 
of  Preface  writer,  have  afforded  me  some  soothing  and 
gratifying  reflections.  Differing  as  Lucy  and  I  do  on 

*  Miss  Barton's  Bible  History ;  to  which  Mr.  Barton  contributed 
a  Preface. 


TOMRS.SHAWE.  57 

certain  points,  it  is  to  me  a  comforting  thought,  that  we 
can  forget  and  forego  all  such  differences  in  a  cordial  though 
humble  and  feeble  effort  to  uphold  the  life  and  character  of 
our  common  Lord  and  Master  as  a  pattern  for  the  imitation 
of  his  followers  of  whatever  sect  or  name ;  and  can  freely  join 
in  the  effort  to  turn  the  attention  of  the  young  to  its  beauty 
and  excellence.  It  would  say  little,  indeed,  for  Lucy's 
Churchanity  or  my  Quakerism,  could  we  have  thought,  felt, 
or  done  otherwise. 

And  now,  after  all  this  egotism,  for,  Lucy  being  a  sort 
of  second  self,  all  I  write  about  her  comes  under  that  head, 
I  must  inquire  after  N.'s  gout.  I  hope  long  ere  this  it  has 
ceased,  at  any  rate,  to  rage ;  for  I  have  very  awful  ideas 
of  that  malady  in  its  potential  mood  treasured  amid  the 
earlier  memories  of  my  childhood.  My  grandfather  and 
grandmother  had  a  country-house  at  Tottenham,  where 
some  of  my  happiest  hours  were  spent.  But  every  earthly 
elysium  has  its  set-off;  and  this  was  not  exempt.  A  good 
citizen  of  the  name  of  Townsend,  a  particular  friend  of 
the  venerable  pair,  used  to  come  down  there  and  bring  his 
gout  with  him;  and  my  poor  grandma's  fright  lest  I 
should  go  near  his  too  susceptible  foot  used  to  keep  her 
and  me  in  a  worry.  —  Well-nigh  half  a  century  has  elapsed 
since  those  days,  but  her  reiterated  exclamation,  "Child! 
do  take  care  and  not  run  against  friend  Townsend' s  foot," 
is  yet  distinctly  in  my  mind's  ear.  T.  was  a  patient,  quiet 
old  sufferer  too,  and  if  I  did  touch  the  forbidden  stool  in  an 
unlucky  moment,  he  was  the  first  to  notify  that  no  harm 
was  done. — I  hope  N.  bears  his  honours  as  meekly,  and  that, 
with  as  kindly  a  heart  as  poor  old  Jemmy  Townsend's,  his 
unwelcome  companion  may  be  of  a  kindlier  nature.  I 
much  doubt  if  the  worthy  old  citizen  ever  stood  or  walked 
much  —  at  least,  all  my  recollections  of  him  go  on  wheels. 


58  LETTERS. 


11  mo,  24,  1838. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

I  send  thee  herewith  a  little  book*  which  to 
many  would  seem  the  very  essence  of  insipidity  —  but  if  I 
mistake  not,  thou  wilt  appreciate  more  indulgently  the 
genuine  simplicity  of  its  character.  *  *  * 

*  To  me  it  is  a  tome  of  no  common  interest, 
from  the  picture  it  gives  of  gentle,  unobtrusive  goodness  — 
and  the  light  it  incidentally  throws  on  what  I  regard  as 
the  true  operative  tendency  of  the  Quaker  creed,  when 
lived  up  to  and  simply  followed.  For  though  it  be  per- 
fectly true  that  gentleness,  meekness,  patience,  faith,  and 
love  are  of  no  sect,  yet  the  manner  in  which  these  are 
taught,  and  the  mode  in  which  they  are  exhibited,  may 
have  some  distinguishing  features.  In  the  case  of  this 
young  woman,  for  instance,  her  growth  in  Christian  ex- 
cellence is  not  to  be  traced  to  her  edification  under  the 
teaching  of  a  Christian  ministry.  Sudbury,  where  she 
was  born  and  brought  up,  is  a  very  small  meeting,  and  I 
cannot  now  call  to  mind  its  ever  having  had,  in  my  memory, 
even  one  of  our  seldom-speaking  preachers  resident  there, 
so  that  I  think  it  very  probable,  that  through  childhood  and 
girlhood,  except  while  at  school,  this  girl,  week  after  week, 
and  month  after  month,  chiefly  attended  silent  meetings  only. 
Her  Christian  knowledge  and  experience  were  nurtured  by 
no  ordinances;  for  the  outward  observances  of  these  she 
never  knew,  or  practised. 

Think  not  for  one  moment  J  am  condemning  either  a 
stated  ministry,  the  use  of  a  form  of  prayer,  or  the  ob- 
servance of  ordinances  among  others  —  very  far  from  it. 

*  Memoirs  of  Maria  Jesup. 


TO     MES.     SHAWE.  59 

I  am  only  adducing  a  simple  proof  that  in  the  absence  of 
all  these,  generally  deemed  essential,  the  Great  Head  of 
the  church  will  himself  be  the  teacher  of  those  who,  con- 
scientiously rejecting  such  helps,  under  a  firm  belief  of  the 
simple  spirituality  of  His  religion,  look  to  Him,  and  his 
word}  both  written  and  inwardly  revealed,  as  their  rule 
and  law.  Who  shall  say  that  in  doing  this  they  have  fol- 
lowed cunningly  devised  fables,  or  the  ignis  fatuus  of 
mere  fanaticism?  The  means  so  blessed  to  her  seem  to 
have  been,  the  practice  of  daily  retirement,  the  study  of  the 
Scriptures,  and  diligent  attention  to  what  she  apprehended 
to  be  the  teaching  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  What  is  there  that 
ought  to  be  regarded  as  sectarian  in  each  or  all  of  these  ? 
To  my  judgment,  nothing;  for  they  seem  to  me  part  and 
parcel  of  our  common  Christianity,  and  to  embrace  and  em- 
body its  very  essence. 

In  the  phraseology  of  her  memoranda,  Quakerism  is 
more  apparent,  but  not  to  me  offensively  so.  I  like  it  all 
the  better,  perhaps,  from  its  being,  in  a  manner,  my  mother 
tongue.  To  me  it  has  a  charm  from  its  simplicity,  which 
is  in  keeping  with  the  unobtrusive  retired  worth  of  its 
writer.  Nor  do  I  believe  such  characters  by  any  means 
rare  among  the  young  women  of  the  Society.  How  little 
there  is  of  doctrinal  discussion  in  these  memoranda!  no. 
mooting  of  knotty  points  or  abstruse  dogmas :  all  is  viewed 
in  its  practical  influence  on  the  heart  and  its  affections, 
and  their  conformity  to  the  Divine  will :  and  such  is,  and 
ought  to  be,  and  ever  will  be,  the  aim,  scope,  and  tendency 
of  all  true  religion. 

Thy  affectionate  friend, 

B.  B. 


60  LETTERS. 


1838. 


DR.  JOHNSON  says,  I  think,  in  a  paper  of  his 
"Idler,"  written  on  the  death  of  his  mother,  that  philo- 
sophy may  infuse  stubbornness,  but  religion  alone  can 
give  true  patience.  And  he  never  said  anything  more 
true.  There  is  a  spurious  sort  of  fortitude  which  the  pride 
of  our  poor  frail  nature,  aided  by  the  cut  and  dry  precepts 
of  what  is  called  philosophy,  can  supply  in  the  hour  of 
trial,  which  may  yield  a  temporary  support;  but,  even 
while  it  lasts,  this  spirit  of  stoical  endurance  has  none  of 
the  healing  virtue  of  Christian  submission :  it  leaves  the 
heart  and  all  its  affections  hard  and  dry,  unsoftened  by 
those  afflictions  which  were  graciously  sent  to  melt  and 
mould  them  to  nobler  influences  and  enlarged  capacities  of 
good;  while  the  meek  and  resigned  spirit  which  God's 
holy  word  would  inculcate,  and  which  his  blessed  Spirit 
would  give  to  the  Christian  mourner,  leads  us  to  look  be- 
yond present  suffering  to  the  end  it  was  designed  to  accom- 
plish, and  to  the  grateful  confession  that  He  who  does  not 
afflict  us  willingly,  has  done  all  well  and  wisely,  and  has  only 
chastened  us  to  bring  us  nearer  to  himself. 


1839. 


WHEN  any  sorrow  tends  to  wrap  us  up  in  our- 
selves, and  makes  us  think  only  of  our  own  feelings  and 
privations,  we  may  be  very  sure  it  is  not  answering  the  end 
for  which  it  was  mercifully  sent. 


TO    MRS.     SHAWE.  61 


1839. 

THE  longer  I  live  the  more  expedient  I  find  it 
to  endeavour  more  and  more  to  extend  my  sympathies  and 
affections.  The  natural  tendency  of  advancing  years  is  to 
narrow  and  contract  these  feelings.  I  do  not  mean  that  I 
wish  to  form  a  new  and  sworn  friendship  every  day  —  to 
increase  my  circle  of  intimates;  these  are  very  different 
affairs.  But  I  find  it  conduces  to  my  mental  health  and 
happiness  to  find  out  all  I  can  which  is  amiable  and  love- 
able  in  all  I  come  in  contact  with,  and  to  make  the  most 
of  it.  It  may  fall  very  short  of  what  I  was  once  wont  to 
dream  of;  it  may  not  supply  the  place  of  what  I  have 
known,  felt,  and  tasted ;  but  it  is  better  than  nothing  —  it 
serves  to  keep  the  feelings  and  affections  in  exercise  —  it 
keeps  the  heart  alive  in  its  humanity ;  and,  till  we  shall  be 
all  spiritual,  this  is  alike  our  duty  and  our  interest. 


5  mo,  2, 1840. 

MANY  thanks  to  thee  and  Newton  for  attending 
at  my  launch;*  I  never  affect  to  put  on  a  voluntary  hu- 
mility, or  affect  indifference  where  I  feel  aught  of  gratifi- 
cation or  interest :  and  I  did  both  on  the  occasion  to  which 
I  refer.  At  the  time,  I  was  sailing  about  Portsmouth  har- 
bour, looking  at  great  castles  of  ships,  to  which  the  B.  B. 
was  but  like  a  child's  toy,  made  out  of  half  a  walnut-shell. 

*  Launch  of  the  "  Bernard  Barton"  schooner. 
6 


02  LETTERS. 

Some  of  these  leviathans  were  on  the  stocks,  having  been 
hauled  up  to  repair;  and  I  was  asking  myself  if  my  vanity 
would  not  have  been  more  tickled  to  have  had  one  of  these 
first-rates  bear  my  name,  and  be  consigned  to  its  destined 
element  amid  the  shouts  of  a  far  more  numerous  and  bril- 
liant assemblage  than  I  could  then  suppose  got  together  at 
Woodbridge.  Of  a  truth,  could  the  choice  have  been  given 
me,  I  should  have  given  my  vote,  most  cordially,  for  the 
schooner  B.  B.  at  Woodbridge.  I  have  so  decided  a  pre- 
ference for  humbler  fame  of  home  growth,  awarded  by 
folks  that  I  have  lived  among  for  thirty-five  years,  and  am 
linked  to  by  numberless  and  nameless  ties  of  neighbourly, 
social,  and  friendly  sympathy.  With  these  feelings  thou 
wilt  readily  feel  and  understand  that  the  B.  B.  is  a  bit  of  a 
pet  with  me,  and  I  really  believe  I  have  as  much  interest 
in  her  well-doing  as  if  I  held  a  share  in  her.  I  have  been 
down  several  times  to  see  her  as  she  lies  along-side  the 
quay:  her  rigging  and  mast,  with  some  of  her  sails,  are 
now  up,  and  this  week  she  is  to  sail,  I  think  to  Hartlepool, 
a  port,  I  believe,  on  the  Durham  coast,  some  where  near 
Sunderland.  Our  ancestors,  who  used  to  be  devout  in 
their  phraseology,  even  about  business,  had  in  their  old 
printed  bills  of  lading  a  phrase,  now,  I  believe,  gone  out 
of  fashion,  and,  after  stating  the  cargo,  and  the  time  al- 
lowed for  the  voyage  and  delivery,  the  old  finale  ran  thus 
— "  and  so  God  speed  the  good  ship,  and  send  her  safe  to 
her  desired  port!"  or  some  words  to  that  effect.  The 
thing  I  dare  say  was  a  mere  form,  and  to  nine-tenths 
using  and  signing  it,  had  no  meaning.  I  thought,  however, 
this  evening,  as  I  turned  away  from  the  quay,  I  could  echo 
the  old  phrase  very  cordially. 


TO     MBS.     SHAWE.  63 


TO  ANOTHER   COERESPONDENT. 

[SOME  of  my  townsmen,  three  or  four  years  ago, 
took  it  into  their  heads  to  name  a  schooner,  built  at  this 
port,  after  their  Woodbridge  poet.  The  parties  were  not 
literary  people,  or  great  readers  or  lovers  of  verse;  I  am 
not  sure  that  they  ever  read  a  page  of  mine.  But  I  sup- 
pose they  thought  a  poet  creditable,  some  how  or  other,  to 
a  port;  and  so  they  did  me  that  honour,  for  which  I  am 
vastly  their  debtor.  The  stanza, 

"  Thou  bear'st  no  proud  or  lofty  name 

Which  all  who  read  must  know," 
i 

is  no  flight  of  voluntary  humility  on  my  part,  but  a  sim- 
ple record  of  a  positive  fact;  for  the  captain  has  told  me 
he  has  been  asked  over  and  over  again,  up  the  Mersey,  the 
Humber,  the  Severn,  and  I  know  not  where  else,  what 
person  or  place  his  ship  is  named  after?  and  I  fancy  the 
poor  fellow  has  been  at  some  pains  to  convince  inquirers 
that  among  my  own  folk  I  really  pass  for  somebody.  At 
any  rate,  his  vessel  was  once  put  down  in  the  shipping 
list,  among  the  arrivals  at  some  far-off  port,  as  "  The  Barney 
Burton."  Oh,  Willy  Shakspeare !  well  mightest  thou  ask 
What 's  in  a  name  ?"] 


1  mo,  8,  1843. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

WERE  I  to  follow  out  my  own  inclination  in 
saying  all   that    thy  questions    might    suggest  to  me   as 


64  LETTERS. 

worthy  to  be  said  on  the  topics  referred  to,  it  would  lead 
me  into  a  wide  field  of  discussion ;  but  I  will  not  trust 
myself  to  do  this,  lest  I  should  subject  myself  to  be  classed 
with  those  of  old  who  were  said  to  a  darken  counsel  by 
words  without  knowledge."  I  am  perfectly  aware  that 
St.  Paul  uses  the  words  quoted  by  thee,  "I  suffer  not  a 
woman  to  teach;"  they  are  to  be  found  in  the  Epistle  to 
Timothy,  and  the  context,  if  my  memory  deceives  me  not, 
runs  thus,  — "  nor  to  usurp  authority  over  the  man." 
Where  any  such  disposition  could  be  manifested,  I  readily 
grant  that  woman  could  be  very  ill  qualified  to  teach  either 
her  own  sex  or  ours,  having  need  to  be  taught  herself  the 
very  first  rudiments  of  a  gospel  ministry.  I  am  quite 
aware,  too,  the  same  apostle  in  his  Epistle  to  the  Cor- 
inthians speaks  after  this  fashion,  "Let  your  women  keep 
silence  in  the  churches,  for  it  is  not  permitted  unto  them 
to  speak."  And  here  again  I  think  the  context  tends  to 
throw  some  light  on  the  interdiction,  "If  they  will  learn 
anything,  let  them  ask  their  husbands  at  home :"  words 
which,  to  my  understanding,  pretty  plainly  intimate  the 
sort  of  speaking  which  the  apostle  intended  absolutely  to 
forbid.  Those  women,  or  men  either,  who  would  speak 
in  the  churches,  merely  to  ask  questions  whereby  they 
might  learn  somewhat,  could  hardly  be  qualified  for  the 
high  and  holy  office  of  the  ministry.  Now  these  two  are, 
I  think,  the  only  passages  interdictory  of  women's  preach- 
ing —  that  their  real  spirit  is  not  opposed  to  the  lawfulness 
(under  the  gospel  dispensation)  of  a  female  ministry,  I  am 
compelled  to  believe  for  the  following  reasons  :  — 

First,  the  entire  spirituality  of  the  gospel  dispensation, 
its  abolition  of  all  the  old  Mosaic  law  of  priesthood,  which 
vested  the  office  of  the  ministry  in  the  sons  of  Levi,  ex- 
clusively. This  marked  distinction  is  explicitly  made  by 


TOMRS.SHAWE.  65 

Peter  in  his  address  to  the  people  on  the  day  of  Pentecost, 
when  he  says,  "This  is  that  which  was  spoken  by  the 
prophet  Joel;  —  'I  will  pour  out  of  my  Spirit  upon  all 
flesh :  and  your  sons  and  your  daughters  shall  prophesy  : — 
and  on  my  servants  and  on  my  handmaidens  I  will  pour  out 
in  those  days  of  my  Spirit;  and  they  shall  prophesy  ! ' "  In 
fact,  I  believe  it  to  be  one  of  the  glorious  features  of  that 
new  priesthood  which  our  Lord  himself  set  up  in  his  church, 
that  it  is  limited  to  no  sex,  or  rank,  or  station. 

In  the  second  place,  the  passages  referred  to  in  St. 
Paul's  Epistles  as  interdictory  of  women's  preaching  do 
not  appear  to  me  conclusive,  because  they  are  in  direct 
contradiction  to  other  passages  in  his  own  writings.  If 
he  meant,  in  toto,  to  forbid  the  ministry  of  women  at  all, 
why  give  directions  what  their  attire  or  costume  should 
be  when  praying  or  prophesying,  and  that  they  should  do 
neither  with  their  heads  uncovered?  The  whole  tenor  of 
the  opening  of  the  llth  chapter  of  1st  Corinthians,  shows 
that  the  apostle  there  refers  to  what  openly  passed  in  the 
public  assemblies  of  the  early  church.  When  I  find  the 
same  apostle  sending  such  a  message  as  this,  "Salute 
those  women  who  laboured  with  me  in  the  gospel"  —  (I 
find  I  have  quoted  wrong,  trusting  to  memory;  his  words 
are)  —  "  Help  those  women  which  laboured  with  me  in  the 
gospel/'  I  think  it  no  forced  construction  that  they  were 
fellow  ministers.  The  same  I  should  infer  of  Priscilla, 
whom  he  styles  one  of  his  helpers  in  Christ.  But  it 
would  be  endless  to  quote  all  the  passages  which  tend  to 
show,  that  in  the  earlier  age  of  the  church,  and  in  the 
primitive  purity  of  its  apostolic  government,  women  did  exer- 
cise their  gift  in  the  ministry. 

With  regard  to  the  practical  working  of  this  liberty  of 
6* 


OO  LETTERS. 

prophesying,  in  our  own  Society,  I  can  only  say  that  I 
believe  it  has  worked  well;  and  that  some  of  the  most 
powerful,  effective,  and  persuasive  ministers  in  the  So- 
ciety have  been  women,  —  and  still  are.  I  cannot  under- 
stand why  there  should  be  aught  of  soul  in  sex  which 
should  qualify  the  one  exclusively,  and  disqualify  the 
other  from  becoming  fit  recipients  of  those  influences  of 
the  Spirit  by  the  aid  of  which  alone  man  or  woman  can 
speak  to  edification.  In  some  respects,  especially  as  re- 
gards our  own  Society,  I  should  say  that  women,  among 
us,  taking  into  account  their  general  training,  habits,  and 
the  life  they  lead,  have  some  peculiar  advantages,  tending  to 
fit  and  qualify  them  for  the  service  of  the  ministry ;  but  on 
these  it  is  superfluous  to  dwell. 

I  do  not  pretend  to  assert  that  the  arguments  I  have 
adduced  for  the  lawfulness  of  female  preaching,  under  the 
gospel  dispensation,  are  such  as  will  satisfy  a  church- 
woman  of  the  propriety  of  the  custom.  We  are  so  much 
the  creatures  of  habit,  of  education,  of  tradition,  that  from 
the  same  admitted  premises,  we  are  very  apt  to  come  to 
opposite  conclusions;  but  I  hope  I  have  said  somewhat 
which  may  warrant  thy  charitable  and  tolerant  conviction 
that  we  have  not  come  to  the  decision  adopted  without 
much  thought  and  reflection  on  the  subject;  and  that  we, 
at  least,  think  we  have  Scripture  on  our  side;  judging, 
not  by  one  or  two  insulated  passages,  divested  of  their 
context,  but  by  the  spirit  and  scope  of  the  New  Testament 
law,  and  a  careful  and  prayerful  consideration  of  the  facts 
recorded  in  it. 

I  have  made  a  much  longer  commentary  than  I  in- 
tended on  the  text  which  I  was  requested  to  explain,  so  I 
cannot  now  answer  thy  other  queries.  Forgive  my  pro- 


TOMRS.SHAWE.  67 

lixity,   and  believe   me,   however  we   may   differ,  thy  as- 
sured and 

Affectionate  friend, 

B.  B. 


1  mo,  12, 1843. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

THOUGH  thy  silence  by  no  means  leads  me  to 
infer  that  my  last  long  letter  was  a  satisfactory  one,  I  feel 
disposed  to  proceed  to  say  a  word  or  two  on  thy  other 
queries  while  they  are  fresh  in  my  memory.  Happily,  on 
them  I  have  only  simple  facts  to  state,  and  the  general  prac- 
tice to  report. 

Persons  of  either  sex  who  are  impressed  with  the  be- 
lief that  they  are  called  upon  by  the  impulse  of  religious 
duty  to  speak  -  in  our  assemblies,  are  not  in  the  practice  of 
making  any  profession  to  this  effect.  If,  for  instance,  I  can 
for  a  moment  suppose  myself  to  be  thus  called  upon,  I 
should  simply  stand  up  in  my  usual  place  in  our  meeting, 
and  express  the  few  words  which  I  conceived  it  my  duty 
to  utter.  It  might  probably  be  a  simple  texi  of  Scripture, 
without  note  or  comment  of  any  kind  super-added:  of 
such  an  appearance  no  notice  would  probably  be  taken  at 
first,  either  as  encouragement  or  the  contrary;  for,  while 
friends  cannot  consistently  with  their  principles  forbid 
such  communication,  if  made  in  a  reverent  and  decorous 
manner,  they  are  careful  not  hastily  to  fostel-,  or  lay  hands 
on  any  who  make  such  an  appearance.  If  it  be  from^time 
to  time  again  repeated,  and  a  few  words  either  of  exhort- 
ation or  encouragement  added  to  the  passage  so  quoted, 


68  LETTERS. 

those  in  the  meeting  who  fill  the  station  of  approved  minis- 
ters or  elders,  have  a  watchful  eye  on  the  party :  not  only 
what  he  or  she  may  say,  and  the  spirit  in  which  it  seems 
to  be  uttered,  are  attentively  observed ;  but  the  general  life 
and  character  of  the  party,  and  its  consistency  with  the 
principles  of  the  Society,  are  weighed  and  observed.  If 
all  these  tend  to  confirm  the  judgment  that  such  a  person 
is  really  acting  under  the  influence  of  the  Spirit,  he  or  she 
is  permitted  to  exercise  the  gift  for  a  longer  or  shorter 
time  of  probation,  as  such  an  exercise  of  it  may  afford  the 
more  judicious  and  solid  part  of  the  meeting  an  oppor- 
tunity of  coming  to  a  decision.  If  after  such  probationary 
exercise  the  speaker,  by  increasing  power  and  authority, 
give  satisfactory  proof  that  his  ministry  is  of  the  true 
stamp;  the  meeting  of  ministers  and  elders,  a  select  body 
who  have  meetings  of  their  own,  distinct  from  the  more 
public  ones,  recommend  to  the  monthly  meeting  at  large, 
that  such  a  person  be  considered  as  a  minister  in  unity 
with  and  approved  by  the  body  at  large.  But  I  have 
known  such  a  time  of  ordeal  last  for  a  year  or  two,  before 
any  steps  have  been  taken  publicly  to  recognise  him  or  her 
as  a  minister.  In  fact,  I  have  known  cases  where  such  a  re- 
cognition has  never  been  made,  but  the  speaker  has  held 
the  rather  anomalous  station  of  an  allowed  or  tolerated, 
but  not  an  approved  minister.  In  such  cases,  however, 
the  appearances  of  the  speaker  have  generally  been  neither 
long  nor  frequent,  and  are  rather  submitted  to  by  the  body 
from  a  feeling  of  kind  forbearance  toward  the  parties,  who 
may  be  supposed  to  relieve  their  own  minds  by  such  utter- 
ance, although  they  may  not  edify  the  body.  Still,  if  they 
say  nothing  unsound  or  unscriptural,  and  are  not  often  in 
the  practice  of  speaking,  it  seems  safest  and  wisest  to  let 
them  alone.  If  they  become  very  troublesome,  and  give 


TOMRS.SHAWE.  69 

evident  proof  that  their  supposed  gift  is  spurious,  they  are 
first  privately  dissuaded  from  making  any  such  appearance 
in  the  ministry:  —  if  they  still  continue  the  practice,  an 
elder,  minister,  or  overseer  of  the  meeting  would  publicly 
request  them  to  sit  down;  but  I  have  rarely  known  the 
thing  carried  so  far.  Where  a  gift  in  the  ministry  has 
been  considered  genuine,  and  acceptably  exercised,  the  party 
has  mostly  continued  in  that  station  during  life. 

I  do  not  see  aught  in  our  creed  which  should  render 
such  a  continuance  stranger  among  us  than  others.  I 
know  of  nothing  in  the  practice  or  theory  of  Quakerism 
which  should  give  rise  to  the  report  that  we  are  "  called 
upon  to  confess  our  faults  one  to  another"  —  most  certainly 
if  aught  at  all  bordering  on  the  "auricular  confession"  of 
the  Romish  Church  be  implied,  I  have  never  heard  of  any 
thing  of  the  sort. 

If  my  answers  to  thy  questions  are  not  intelligible,  I  shall 
be  perfectly  willing  to  make  them  so,  or  to  try  to  give  thee 
any  further  explanation. 

Thy  assured  friend, 

B.  B. 


1843. 

THE  longer  I  live  the  more  I  love  and  prize 
Quaker  principles.  But  I  am  well  content  to  love  them 
without  compassing  sea  and  land  to  make  proselytes  to 
them,  and  would  rather  be  thought  in  error  for  holding 
them,  even  by  those  whom  I  most  esteem,  than  risk  any 
infringement  of  that  perfect  law  of  love  which  is  the 


70  LETTERS. 

essence  and  substance  of  religion  itself,  by  disputing 
about  them.  Most  happily,  my  dear  friend,  none  of  these 
are  primary,  vital,  and  essential  truths  —  on  them  we  cor- 
dially agree.  All  who  look  to  the  propitiating  atonement 
of  Christ,  and  that  alone,  for  salvation;  all  who  humbly 
seek  for,  and  strive  to  live  in  obedience  to,  the  teachings 
of  the  Holy  Spirit,  as  the  means  of  their  regeneration  and 
sanctification ;  all  such,  be  their  name  or  sect  what  it  may, 
I  look  upon  as  living  members  of  the  one  truly  Catholic 
Church.  They  hold  allegiance  to  one  Head,  and  derive 
their  life  from  one  Root. 


TO  W.  B.  DONNE,  ESQ. 


4  mo,  5,  1840. 


PRAY  make  my  very  kindest  respects  to  Mrs. 
Donne,  and  my  most  reverential  ones  to  Mrs.  Bodham.  I 
believe  I  am  more  proud  of  having  sat  on  the  sofa  with 
her,  than  of  having,  or  being  about  to  have,  a  ship  named 
after  me.  The  Bernard  Barton  may  go  to  the  bottom, 
(though  I  hope  better  things  for  her,  —  how  odd  it  seems 
to  write  of  myself  in  the  feminine  gender !)  and  her  fate 
may  bring  disgrace  on  my  name,  as  having  tended  to  bring 
about  such  a  catastrophe;  but  nothing  in  the  unrolled 
scroll  of  the  future,  so  long  as  that  future  is  passed  by  me 
in  this  state  of  being,  can  cheat  me  out  of  the  remembrance 
of  that  bright  hour  or  two  at  Mattishall,  and  in  its  envi- 
rons. There  are  few  in  my  life  that  I  have  lived  over  again 
with  more  delight. 

I  am  finishing  my  letter,  begun  three  days  ago,  in  my 
own  little  study,  six  feet  square,  at  the  witching  hour  of 
night,  having  just  closed  two  ponderous  ledgers  brought 
out  of  the  bank,  to  do  lots  of  figure-work,  after  working 
there  from  nine  to  six.  I  only  wish  I  had  thee  in  the 
opposite  chair,  to  take  a  pinch  out  of  the  Royal  G-eorge,* 

*  A  snuff-box  made  out  of  the  recovered  wood  of  the  Royal 
George. 

(71) 


72  LETTERS. 

or  another,  as  interesting  a  relic,  standing  by  me  on  the 
table  —  a  plain  wooden  box,  the  original  cost  of  which 
might  be  2s.  6d.  or  3s. ;  but  to  me  it  has  a  worth  passing 
show,  having  been  the  working-box  and  table-companion 
of  Crabbe  the  poet.  It  was  given  me  by  his  son  and 
biographer,  and  I  prize  it  far  beyond  a  handsome  silver 
one,  Crabbe 's  dress  box,  which  I  think  his  son  told  me  he 
gave  to  Murray. 


6  mo,  23,  1842. 

WELL,  but  now  about  thy  Roman  History,  for 
certain  numbers  of  which  I  am  thy  debtor.  When  the 
numbers  first  came  I  said,  "Go  to  —  I  will  be  wise,  and 
study  history.  I  never  yet  read  a  history  in  my  life, 
save  after  the  hop-skip-and-jump  fashion,  but  now  I  will 
become  historic."  Alas !  alas !  I  did  most  faithfully, 
honestly,  and  truly  read,  mark,  learn,  and  strove  inwardly 
to  digest  ]  but  I  got  on  slowly.  I  thought  of  the  first  line 
of  Wordsworth's  sonnet  to  my  neighbour  the  great  abo- 
litionist — 

"  Clarkson,  it  was  an  obstinate  hill  to  climb !" 

and  "the  more  I  read  the  more  my  wonder  grew"  at  the 
persevering  industry  of  thyself  in  digging,  sifting,  sort- 
ing, and  arranging  such  an  accumulation  of  historical 
details.  At  times  I  honestly  own  I  flagged,  but  when  I 
called  to  mind  thy  labour  of  love  in  having  written  it  all, 
and  corrected  the  proofs;  to  say  nothing  of  first  collecting 
the  materials,  and  that  these  numbers  were  but  a  speci- 


TO     W.     B.     DONNE,     ESQ.  73 

men;  I  marvelled  more  and  more.  Still,  the  longer  I 
read,  the  more  I  became  convinced  I  was  hopelessly  un- 
historical  —  that  in  my  phrenology  the  organ  of  history  was 
very  imperfectly  developed.  Yet  thy  history  is  a  good 
history  notwithstanding,  true,  and  faithful,  and  learned; 
but  such  is  the  wayward  perversity  of  a  poet,  methinks  I 
should  like  it  better  had  it  fewer  facts,  and  more  fiction 
interwoven. 

If  I  have  not  in  sober  earnest  given  cause  of  offence  to 
thee,  by  my  inability  to  ride  thy  hobby,  pray  write  and 
tell  me  how  it  fares  with  you  all.  It  ought  to  be  no 
ground  of  quarrel  with  me  in  thy  eyes,  if  I  feel  more 
interested  about  Catherine  than  Cornelia,  or  about  thy 
two  eldest  boys  than  about  Romulus  and  Remus.  Mrs. 
Donne  is,  I  hope,  too  very  a  woman  not  to  like  me  the 
better  for  it;  and,  as  her  husband,  thou  art  bound  to  for- 
give me.  I  direct  this  to  the  Penates  at  Mattishall. 


Woodbridge,  6  mo  25,  1847. 

MY  DEAR  DONNE, 

I  SEND  thee  the  annexed  little  tribute,*  not  to 
challenge  any  laud  for  its  poetical  merits,  nor  because  the 
character  it  commemorates  had  much  of  what  scholars  and 
critics  would  call  poetical  in  his  composition,  but  simply 
because  Ms  had  the  elements,  the  material  of  such  in  my 
eye.  He  was  a  hearty  old  yeoman  of  about  eighty-six  — 
had  occupied  the  farm  in  which  he  lived  and  died  about 

*  A  Memorial  to  T.  H. 


74  LETTERS. 

fifty-five  years.  Social,  hospitable,  friendly;  a  liberal 
master  to  his  labourers,  a  kind  neighbour,  and  a  right 
merry  companion  "within  the  limits  of  becoming  mirth." 
In  politics,  a  staunch  "Whig;  in  his  theological  creed,  as 
sturdy  a  Dissenter;  yet  with  no  more  party  spirit  in  him 
than  a  child.  He  and  I  belonged  to  the  same  book  club 
for  about  forty  years.  He  entered  it  about  fifteen  years 
before  I  came  into  these  parts,  and  was  really  a  pillar  in  our 
literary  temple.  Not  that  he  greatly  cared  about  books, 
or  was  deeply  read  in  them,  but  he  loved  to  meet  his 
neighbours,  and  get  them  round  him,  on  any  occasion,  or 
no  occasion  at  all.  As  a  fine  specimen  of  the  true  English 
yeoman,  I  have  met  few  to  equal,  hardly  any  to  surpass 
him,  and  he  looked  the  character  as  well  as  he  acted  it,  till 
within  a  very  few  years,  when  the  strong  man  was  bowed 
by  bodily  infirmity.  About  twenty-six  years  ago,  in  his 
dress  costume  of  a  blue  coat  and  yellow  buckskins,  a  finer 
sample  of  John  Bullism  you  would  rarely  see.  It  was  the 
whole  study  of  his  long  life  to  make  the  few  who  revolved 
round  him  in  his  little  orbit,  as  happy  as  he  always  seemed 
to  be  himself;  yet  I  was  gravely  queried  with,  when  I 
happened  to  say  that  his  children  had  asked  me  to  write  a 
few  lines  to  his  memory,  whether  I  could  do  this  in 
keeping  with  the  general  tone  of  my  poetry.  The  speaker 
doubted  if  he  was  a  decidedly  pious  character.  He  had 
at  times,  in  his  altitudes,  been  known  to  vociferate  at  the 
top  of  his  voice,  a  song  of  which  the  chorus  was  certainly 
not  teetotalish  — 

Sing  old  Rose  and  burn  the  bellows, 
Drink  and  drive  dull  care  away." 

I  would  not  deny  the  vocal  impeachment,  for  I  had  heard 
him  sing  the  song  myself,  though  not  for  the  last  dozen 


TO     W.     B.     DONNE,     ESQ.  75 

years.  As  for  his  being  or  not  being  a  decidedly  pious 
character,  that  depended  partly  on  who  might  be  called  on 
to  decide  the  question.  He  was  not  a  man  of  much  profes- 
sion, but  he  was  a  most  diligent  attender  of  his  place  of  wor- 
ship, a  frequent  and  I  believe  a  serious  reader  of  his  Bible, 
and  kept  an  orderly  and  well-regulated  house.  In  his  blither 
moods  I  certainly  have  heard  him  sing  that  questionable 
ditty  before  referred  to,  but,  as  it  appeared  to  me,  not  under 
vinous  excitement  so  much  as  from  an  unforced  hilarity  which 
habitually  found  vent  in  that  explosion ;  and  I  think  he  never 
in  my  presence  volunteered  that  song.  It  was  pretty  sure  to 
be  asked  for  once  in  a  while,  by  some  who  liked  to  hear 
themselves  join  in  the  chorus.  I  believe  it  was  his  only  one, 
with  the  exception  of  Watts' s  hymns,  which  he  almost  knew 
by  heart,  and  sang  on  Sunday,  at  meeting,  with  equal  fervour 
and  unction.  Take  the  good  old  man  for  all  in  all,  I  look 
not  to  see  his  like  again,  for  the  breed  is  going  out,  I  fear. 
His  fine  spirit  of  humanity  was  better,  methinks,  than  much 
of  that  which  apes  the  tone  and  assumes  the  form  of  divinity. 
So  now  I  think  I  have  told  thee  enough  to  weary  thee,  in 
prose,  as  well  as  verse,  of  my  old  neighbour  and  friend  the 
Suffolk  yeoman. 

Thine  truly, 

B.  B. 


6  mo,  12,  1847. 
MY  DEAR  DONNE, 

I   HAVE   never  heard  of,  or  from   thee,  since  I 
wrote  thee  my  thanks  for   cutting  up  some  verses  I  sent 


76  LETTERS. 

thee  as  a  sort  of  requiem  for  a  near  and  dear  friend  of  mine  $ 
and  I  really  think  the  readiness  with  which  I  submitted  to 
thy  critical  dissection  on  that  occasion  ought  to  have  elicited 
thy  special  commendation ;  considering  that  from  the  time 
of  the  appeal  made  by  those  two  mothers  to  Solomon,  few,  if 
any,  parents  have  been  found  willing  to  submit  their  offspring 
to  such  an  operation.  But  I  can  forgive  thy  sins  of  commis- 
sion sooner  than  thy  sins  of  omission. 


10  mo,  30,  1848. 

I  BELIEVE,  and  know  by  sad  and  dire  experience, 
that  shopkeepers  and  artisans,  clerks,  journeymen,  are  in 
many  cases  sorely  overworked;  and  have  not  proper  and 
needful  leisure  allowed  them  for  rest  or  recreation.  If  a 
scrap  of  my  doggerel  could  help  my  brother  galley-slaves  and 
myself,  why  not  send  it  ?  But  I  lack  faith.  Mere  earlier 
closing  will  not  do  the  job.  We  used  to  keep  open  till  five, 
daily ;  but  for  these  two  years  and  more  we  have  shut  up  at 
four,  save  on  market  days.  Yet  we  stop  later  of  evenings, 
from  the  increased  pressure  of  business,  since  we  have  closed 
at  four,  than  we  used  to  do  when  we  kept  open  till  five.  So 
we  have  taken  little  by  that  movement. 


TO  MRS.  SUTTON. 


Of  these  letters,  written  to  a  Quaker  lady,  (whom  Mr.  Barton  never 
saw,*  but  corresponded  with  for  more  than  twenty  years,  the  first 
division  alludes  mainly  to  some  little  charges  of  Quaker  non-con- 
formity; charges  kindly  and  half  playfully  made,  and  so  answered. 

The  last  division  refers  to  certain  controversies  among  the  Friends, 
and  secessions  from  that  body,  several  years  ago. 

7  mo,  26,  1839. 

MY  dear  good  old  mother's  house  is  to  be  sold 
or  offered  by  auction  to-morrow.      *       *     *      The  house, 

*  To  this  lady  he  addressed  the  sonnet : — 

Unknown  to  sight  —  for  more  than  twenty  years 
Have  we,  by  written  interchange  of  thought, 
And  feeling,  been  into  communion  brought 
Which  friend  to  friend  insensibly  endears ! 
In  various  joys  and  sorrows,  hopes  and  fears, 
Befalling  each ;  and  serious  subjects,  fraught 
With  wider  interest,  we  at  times  have  sought 
To  gladden  t his  —  yet  look  to  brighter  spheres ! 
We  never  yet  have  met ;  and  never  may, 
Perchance,  while  pilgrims  upon  earth  we  fare ; 
Yet,  as  we  seek  each  other's  load  to  bear, 
Or  lighten,  and  that  law  of  love  obey, 
May  we  not  hope  in  heaven's  eternal  day 
To  meet,  and  happier  intercourse  to  share  ? 
7*  (77) 


78 


LETTERS. 


though  very  large  and  roomy,  is  near  two  hundred  years 
old  and  copyhold,  so  not  very  saleable,  but  sold  on  some 
terms  it  must  and  will  be :  so  I  turned  into  its  old- 
fashioned  garden  the  other  day  a  young  artist  friend  of 
mine,  and  sat  him  down  on  a  stool  in  the  middle  of  the 
long  gravel  walk  leading  from  the  parlour  door  to  the 
bottom  of  the  garden,  which  ends  with  a  most  beautiful 
and  picturesque  group  of  trees.  These  he  has  made  a  de- 
lightful water-colour  sketch  of — an  upright,  about  eleven 
inches  high  and  eight  wide.  In  the  afternoon  he  turned 
his  seat  round,  and  sketched  the  back  or  garden  front  ot 
the  house,  as  it  looks  from  the  garden,  above,  under,  and 
through  the  trees.  This  drawing  he  has  made  as  a  com- 
panion to  the  Ive-Gill  sketch  he  did  me  a  short  time  ago, 
and  the  same  size,  ten  inches  by  eight,  so  I  have  hung  the 
trio  over  my  study  fire;  and  just  under  the  tall  upright 
one,  I  have  hung  the  portrait  of  the  old  dear  herself,  so  they 
hang  after  this  fashion  :  — 


and  a  very  pretty  quartetto  they  make,  the  two  garden 
scenes  are  such  vivid  transcripts  of  the  spot  depicted,  and, 
though  slight  and  free  sketches  only,  retain  so  perfectly 
the  spirit  and  character  of  the  places  that  I  could  sit  and 
look  at  them  till  I  half  fancy  myself  in  the  old  familiar 


TO     MRS.     BUTTON.  79 

haunt;  and  the  blessed  old  dear  herself  looks  so  perfectly 
at  home,  in  the  middle  of  her  old  and  favourite  garden, 
that  it  is  quite  a  treat  to  look  at  her.  Ive-Gill,  I  promise 
thee,  is  in  goodly  company,  and  becomes  it  well.  Mother's 
house  and  garden  were  so  old-fashioned,  and  the  latter  so 
wildly  overgrown  with  trees,  that  they  assort  well  together. 
Over  the  top  of  the  house,  as  high  as  its  towering  chimney, 
is  the  tufted  top  of  a  tall  sycamore,  growing  in  the  court-yard 
next  the  street :  this,  mother  stuck  in  a  twig,  to  tie  a  flower 
to,  or  point  out  where  some  seeds  were  sown,  when  she  came 
home  a  bride  near  sixty-six  or  sixty-seven  years  ago.  It  took 
root,  and  is  now  a  lofty  tree,  but  one  very  likely  to  be  cut 
down  by  some  new  owner,  so  I  wished  to  preserve  its  memo- 
rial. But  it  is  now  breakfast  time,  and  I  have  been  scrib- 
bling this  hour. 

[Mr.  Barton  himself  bought  this  house  and  grounds 
with  some  of  the  money  presented  to  him  by  the  Friends 
in  1824.] 


10  mo,  11, 1843. 

AND  now  for  thy  dressing  about  my  pictures, 
which  I  own  at  first  took  me  a  little  by  surprise ;  for  as  I 
am  in  a  great  measure  thy  debtor  for  the  largest  picture  I 
have,  as  well  as  for  one  of  my  favourites  among  the  smaller 
ones  —  I  refer  of  course  to  my  father's  portrait  and  the 
Ive-Grill  sketch  —  I  took  it  for  granted  thou  wast  aware 
I  had  such  things  about  me.  My  printed  and  published 


80  LETTERS. 

poems,  too,  contain  such  frequent  passing  allusions  to 
works  of  art,  that  I  took  it  for  granted  I  could  scarcely 
have  a  reader  who  was  ignorant  how  much  and  how  often 
I  have  been  indebted  to  their  silent  prompting  for  many  a 
descriptive  and  illustrative  image  in  my  poetry.  When 
I  first  read  thy  friendly  and  good-natured  lecture,  I 
laughed  and  said  to  Lucy,  —  "  What  a  lucky  thing  it  is  we 
did  not  act  on  our  first  impulse  about  Lily,*  and  get  her 
down  here;  the  poor  dear  child  would  have  been  per- 
fectly horror-struck  to  see  how  our  walls  are  covered.  But 
I  will  tell  Mary  the  whole  length  and  breadth  of  my 
enormities,  and  describe  each  and  all  of  my  pictures  at  full 
length  to  her."  A  little  reflection,  however,  led  me  to 
doubt  if  I  were  justified  in  doing  this.  Thy  objections  to 
hanging  up  such  things  may  be  as  much  a  matter  of  con- 
science with  thee  as  the  use  of  them  is  with  me  the  result 
of  considerable  thought,  which  gave  me,  to  my  own  con- 
science, to  regard  such  use  as  an  allowable  liberty.  If  I 
looked  on  such  works  of  art  as  mere  ornaments  hung  up 
to  gratify  the  vanity  of  the  possessor,  I  should  cordially 
join  in  thy  objection  to  them ;  but  I  regard  them  in  a  very 
different  light.  My  limited  leisure  and  my  failing  bodily 
strength  do  not  allow  of  my  being  the  pedestrian  I  once 
was.  I  often  do  not  walk  out  of  the  streets  for  weeks  to- 
gether; but  my  love  of  nature,  of  earth,  and  sky,  and 
water ;  of  trees,  fields,  and  lanes ;  and  my  still  deeper  love 
of  the  human  face  divine,  is  as  intense  as  ever.  As  a 
poet,  the  use  of  these  is  as  needful  to  me  as  my  food.  I 
can  seldom  get  out  to  see  the  actual  and  the  real;  but  a 
vivid  transcript  of  these,  combined  with  some  little  effort 
of  memory  and  fancy,  makes  my  little  study  full  of  life, 

*  His  correspondent's  daughter. 


TO     MRS.     SUTTON.  81 

peoples  its  silent  walls  with  nature's  cherished  charms,  and 
lights  up  human  faces  round  me  —  dumb,  yet  eloquent  in 
their  human  semblance. 


1  mo,  16,  1846. 

I  AM  about  to  try  thy  faith,  love,  and  charity 
to  an  hair's  breadth,  by  sending  thee  a  little  print  of  the 
interior  of  my  study  with  its  pictures  on  the  walls,  and  — 
its  crucifix  on  the  mantel-piece.  What  would  our  friend 
Smeal  *  say  to  such  a  delineation  of  the  interior  of  the  crib 
in  which  I  spend  what  little  of  leisure  I  can  get  from 
desk  work?  I  dare  say  it  would  confirm  his  worst  sus- 
picions of  me.  Well,  there  it  is,  and  there  is  a  figure  in 
it  meant  to  indicate  me ;  but  about  as  much  like  Robinson 
Crusoe,  as  it  is  like  me. 

*  *       *     But  the  crucifix  —  well,  my  dear  friend,  the 
crucifix —  *       *       *     It  was   brought  from  Germany,  I 
think,  by  a  friend  of  mine,  and  placed  where  it  now  stands, 
by  his  wife,  (a  true  Protestant,)  in  my  absence,  the  day 
before   they  left  Woodbridge,  as  a  parting  memorial;   and 
I  have  simply  allowed  it  to  stand  there  ever  since,  now,  I 
think,  three  years !     It  has  called  forth,  frequently,  a  kind 
thought  of  the  giver ;  now  and  then  I  hope  not  an  unkind 
one  of  our  erring  fellow  Christians  who  mistake  the  use  of 
such  emblems ;  and  if  it  have  occasionally  reminded  me  of 
the    one    great    propitiatory   sacrifice    for   sin    and    trans- 

*  Editor  of  the  "  British  Friend,"  who  reprobated  Mr.  Barton  for 
using1  the  word  "November"  in  poetry,  &c. 


82  LETTERS. 

gression  —  that  I  hope  is  a  thought  to  be  reverently  cher- 
ished, even  if  suggested  by  what  some  may  superstitiously 
regard.  Such,  my  dear  friend,  is  the  history  of  my  little 
crucifix.  Fare  thee  well,  and  try  to  think  of  it  and  me 
with  charity. 


[Referring  to  an  order  he  had  sent  to  Carlisle  to  repair  his  grand- 
father's tomb,  as  related  in  another  letter.] 

8  mo,  15,  1846. 

PERHAPS  our  good  friend  demurs  as  to  the  pro- 
priety of  a  Quaker  poet  having  aught  to  do  with  church 
grave-stones.  On  this  point,  however,  should  such  be  his 
idea,  he  is  mistaken.  I  could  wish  grave-stones  were 
allowed  in  our  own  burial-grounds,  a  discretionary  power 
being  vested  in  proper  quarters  as  to  what  is  allowed  to 
be  put  on  them.  Confine  it,  and  welcome,  to  name,  date, 
and  age;  rigidly  interdict  all  flattery  and  folly.  But  I 
own  it  would  feel  pleasant  to  me  to  know  the  precise  spot 
where  those  I  have  loved  lay.  I  never  feel  quite  sure 
which  is  my  Lucy's  *  grave  out  of  the  family  row.  That 
I  might  have  no  doubt  which  was  my  mother  Jesup's,  I 
planted  a  tree  at  the  foot  of  it,  which  is  now  three  times  my 
own  height. 


*  His  wife's. 


TO     MRS.     BUTTON.  83 


9  mo,  12, 1846. 

AND  now,  my  dear  old  friend  of  above  twenty 
years'  standing,  I  have  two  points  on  which  I  must  try  to 
right  myself  in  thy  good  opinion — the  swansdown  waistcoat, 
and  the  bell,  with  the  somewhat  unquakerly  inscription  of 
"Mr.  Barton's  bell"  graven  above  the  handle  thereof.  I 
could  not  well  suppress  a  smile  at  both  counts  of  the  indict- 
ment, for  both  are  true  to  a  certain  extent,  though  I  do  not 
know  that  I  should  feel  at  all  bound  to  plead  guilty  to  either 
in  a  criminal  one.  It  is  true  that  prior  to  my  birthday,  now 
nearly  two  years  ago,  my  daughter,  without  consulting  me, 
did  work  for  me,  in  worsted  work,  as  they  do  now-a-days  for 
slippers,  a  piece  of  sempstress-ship  or  needle-craft,  forming 
the  forepart  of  a  waistcoat ;  the  pattern  of  which,  being  rather 
larger  than  I  should  have  chosen,  had  choice  been  allowed 
me,  gave  it  some  semblance  of  the  striped  or  flowered  waist- 
coats which  for  aught  I  know  may  be  designated  as  swans- 
down;  but  the  colours,  drab  and  chocolate,  were  so  very 
sober,  that  I  put  it  on  as  I  found  it,  thinking  no  evil,  and 
wore  it,  first  and  week-days,  all  last  winter,  and  may  probably 
through  the  coming  one,  at  least  on  week-days.  It  is  cut  in 
my  wonted  single-breasted  fashion ;  and  as  my  collarless  coat, 
coming  pretty  forward,  allows  no  great  display  of  it,  I  had 
not  heard  before  a  word  of  scandal,  or  even  censure  on  its 
unfriendliness.  Considering  who  worked  it  for  me,  I  am  not 
sure  had  the  royal  arms  been  worked  thereon,  if  in  such 
sober  colours,  but  I  might  have  worn  it,  and  thought  it  less 
fine  and  less  fashionable  than  the  velvet  and  silk  ones  which 
I  have  seen,  ere  now,  in  our  galleries,  and  worn  by  Friends 
of  high  standing  and  undoubted  orthodoxy.  But  I  attach 
comparatively  little  importance  to  dress,  while  there  is 


84  LETTERS. 

enough  left  in  the  tout  ensemble  of  the  costume  to  give  ample 
evidence  that  the  wearer  is  a  Quaker.  So  much  for  the 
waistcoat ;  now  for  the  bell !  I  live  in  the  back  part  of  the 
Bank  premises,  and  the  approach  to  the  yard  leading  to  my 
habitat,  is  by  a  gate,  opening  out  of  the  principal  street  or 
thoroughfare  through  our  town.  The  same  gate  serving  for 
an  approach  to  my  cousin 's  kitchen  door,  to  a  large  bar-iron 
warehouse  in  the  same  yard,  and  I  know  not  what  beside. 
Under  these  circumstances  some  notification  was  thought 
needful  to  mark  the  bell  appertaining  to  our  domicile,  though 
I  suppose  nearly  a  hundred  yards  off,  and  the  bell-hanger, 
without  any  consultation  with  me,  and  without  my  know- 
ledge, had  put  these  words  over  the  handle  of  the  bell,  in  a 
recess  or  hole  in  the  wall  by  the  gate-side,  and  they  had  stood 
there  unnoticed  and  unobserved  by  me  for  weeks,  if  not 
months,  before  I  ever  saw  them.  When  aware  of  their  being 
there,  having  had  no  concern  whatever  in  their  being  put 
there,  having  given  no  directions  for  their  inscription,  and  not 
having  to  pay  for  them,  I  quietly  let  them  stand ;  and,  until 
thy  letter  reached  me,  I  have  never  heard  one  word  of  com- 
ment on  said  inscription  as  an  unquakerly  one,  for  I  believe 
it  is  well  known  among  all  our  neighbours  that  the  job  of 
making  two  houses  out  of  one  was  done  by  contract  with 
artisans  not  of  us,  who  executed  their  commission  according 
to  usual  custom,  without  taking  our  phraseology  into  account. 
Such,  my  good  friend,  are  the  simple  facts  of  the  two  cases. 


TO    MES.     BUTTON.  85 


9  mo,  24,  1846. 

*  *  *  I  SHALL  not  be  in  any  danger  of 
quarrelling  with  thee  for  thy  kind  and  well-meant  wishes 
and  efforts  to  keep  me,  as  far  as  in  thee  lies,  in  the  sim- 
plicity of  the  truth,  but  I  doubt  whether,  without  more 
putter  and  bother  than  the  thing  is  worth,  the  unlucky 
"  Mr."  can  well  be  obliterated.  The  very  idea  of  its  being 
a  title  of  flattery,  so  used,  had  not  occurred  to  me,  so  I 
certainly  had  not  felt  flattered  by  it.  But  if  ever  the 
bell  handle,  or  plate  connected  with  it,  should  have  to  be 
repaired,  a  casualty  which  the  jerks  of  idle  runaways  may 
realize  during  our  winter  evenings,  I  promise  thee  I  will 
have  the  obnoxious  letters  removed  for  thy  sake. 


10  mo,  23,  1847. 

TUPPER  and  his  Proverbial  Philosophy  are  old 
familiar  acquaintance  of  mine.  There  is  good  stuff  in  the 
book,  but  it  strikes  me  as  too  wordy  and  inflated  in  its 
diction;  and  is  of  a  non-descript  class  in  literature  — 
neither  prose  nor  poetry.  Thou  wilt  say,  perhaps,  the 
same  objection  applies  to  our  old  favourite,  "  The  Economy 
of  Human  Life;"  but  that,  though  Oriental  in  its  style, 
like  the  language  of  the  Old  Testament,  affects  much  less 
of  the  rhythm  and  flow  of  verse.  Besides,  I  have  a  notion 
8 


86  LETTERS. 

though  I  have  not  seen  it  now  for  many  years,  it  was 
originally  put  forth  as  a  pretended  ancient  MS.,  which 
may  be  an  excuse  for  its  pomp  of  phrase.  Yet  even 
Dodsley  is  far  less  inflated  than  Tupper.  But  compare 
either  with  the  phraseology  of  Scripture,  of  which  both 
are  to  a  certain  extent  imitations,  and  their  artificiality  is 
very  striking.  The  longer  I  live,  Mary,  the  more  I  love  a 
simple  and  natural  tone  of  expression,  and  the  more  I 
eschew  all  sorts  of  Babylonish  dialects.  Tupper  does  better 
to  dip  into,  and  shines  in  quotation ;  but,  like  all  artificial 
writers,  is  apt  to  become  wearisome  if  long  dwelt  on. 


THOU  hast  inquired  of  me  whether  my  views  on 
Baptism  and  the  Supper  are  at  all  changed  or  modified  by 
the  precept  or  example  of  any  of  our  seceding  Friends. 
Not  a  whit.  In  my  view,  any  trust  or  reliance  in  the 
merely  ceremonial  rite  of  Water  Baptism  is  so  completely 
a  being  brought  into  bondage  to  the  beggarly  elements,  as 
to  be  incompatible  with  the  glorious  liberty  and  entire 
spirituality  of  the  Gospel  dispensation.  Touching  what 
is  called  the  Sacrament,  or  Ordinance,  of  the  Supper, 
though  I  am  surprised  that  any  who  might  have  been 
hoped  to  have  been  made  living  partakers,  spiritual  com- 
municants, of  its  substance  and  reality,  should  deem  its 


TO     MRS.     SUTTON.  87 

outward  literal  observance  obligatory;  yet  when  I  look  at 
the  direct  command  given  by  our  Lord  to  his  immediate 
followers  —  "This  do  in  remembrance  of  me;"  and  when  I 
consider  that  the  early  Christians,  in  some  form  or  other, 
did  so  observe  it;  I  can  quite  understand  the  view  taken 
of  the  institution  by  the  great  body  of  our  Christian  bre- 
thren; I  can,  I  hope,  appreciate  the  feeling  with  which  it 
is  often  administered  and  received;  nor  do  I  doubt,  as  a 
means  of  grace,  it  may  be  blessed  in  its  use  to  many  pious 
and  devout  communicants.  So  far  I  can  go.  But  I  do 
not  the  less  firmly  believe  that  our  early  Friends  were 
rightly  led  and  guided  when  they  decided  on  its  disuse  as 
an  essential  article  of  faith,  or  a  necessary  part  of  Christian 
practice.  The  fearful  liability  to  abuse;  the  extreme 
danger  of  its  degenerating  into  a  mere  form;  the  endless 
and  unprofitable  disputations  to  which  the  mode  and  man- 
ner of  its  observance  have  given  rise;  the  mere  fallacious 
and  groundless  trust  which  its  mere  outward  participation 
is  apt  to  engender  in  thoughtless  and  ignorant  minds ;  all 
these  considerations  are  conclusive  with  me  that  it  was 
part  of  a  day,  and  dispensations  of  "  meats  and  drinks,  and 
divers  washings/'  shadowy  rites,  and  typical  observances, 
out  of  which  our  devout  and  godly  forefathers  were  called 
to  a  more  pure  and  simple  and  spiritual  faith  and  practice  : 
and  thus  believing,  I  think  they  did  well  and  wisely  in 
rejecting  it  as  binding  on  us. 


88  LETTERS. 


TOUCHING  thy  question  of  membership  by  birth- 
right; while  I  admit  the  objections  to  it  are  plausible,  still 
more  serious  ones  present  themselves,  in  my  view,  to  a  de- 
parture from  our  present  rule.  The  seceders,  if  I  under- 
stand their  objections  aright,  state  that  birthright  con- 
ferring membership  is  one  cause  why  many  of  our  Society 
grow  up  in  a  sort  of  traditional  faith,  believing  they  hardly 
know  what  or  why.  In  by-gone  days  there  might  be 
much  truth  in  this ;  at  least,  to  a  certain  extent,  I  believe 
it  was  the  case  in  many  instances ;  but  in  the  present  age 
of  discussion  and  controversy,  except  in  a  very  few  cases, 
where  Friends  are  very  remotely  secluded  from  general 
intercourse,  this  can  scarcely  be  the  case.  Very  few  of 
our  young  Friends  can  be  ignorant  of  the  conflict  of 
opinion  which  has  been  called  forth,  and  still  fewer  I  think 
could  be  found  who  must  not,  in  some  way  or  other,  have 
been  put  upon  inquiring  and  thinking  for  themselves. 
The  objections  to  considering  none  as  members  who  have 
not  attained  an  age  warranting  an  application  from  them 
on  the  ground  of  real  conviction  to  be  received  as  such, 
strike  me  as  serious  and  formidable.  It  must,  as  far  as  I 
see  aught  of  its  practical  working,  put  all  our  young  people 
out  of  the  pale  of  our  discipline;  for  what  valid  right  or 
plausible  plea  could  we  have  to  extend  admonition,  or  ex- 
ercise a  vigilant  and  affectionate  oversight  with  respect  to 
parties  not  in  membership,  consequently  hardly  amenable 
to  the  rules  of  a  Society  to  which  they  had  not  yet  joined 
themselves  ?  This  step,  as  it  appears  to  me,  must  set  our 
younger  Friends  free  from  all  restraint,  save  that  of  pa- 
rental or  preceptoral  authority  and  affection;  very  good 
and  very  excellent  in  themselves,  I  own,  but  often  re- 


TO     MRS.     BUTTON.  89 

quiring  sympathy  and  aid  from  all  available  means. 
Where  parents  and  preceptors  were  themselves  indifferent 
to  the  testimonies  held  by  Friends,  in  their  own  case,  is  it 
at  all  likely  they  would  enforce,  I  mean  by  persuasion, 
their  observance,  on  the  part  of  those  intrusted  to  their 
charge?  As  we  are  now  situated,  supposing  our  young 
people  to  incline  to  go  to  balls,  concerts,  plays,  &c.,  even 
where  their  parents  are  by  no  means  strict  Friends,  the 
thing  is  not  often  attempted,  because  such  or  such  a  one 
would  hear  of  it,  and  it  is  hardly  worth  the  fuss  which 
would  be  made  about  it.  Mind,  I  am  not  saying  this  is 
like  a  renunciation  of  the  same  gratification  on  principle ; 
but  it  may,  for  a  brief  and  critical  period  of  life,  so  far 
answer  a  good  end  that  a  young  person  shall  be  kept  out 
of  the  way  of  much  that  might  contaminate,  and  could 
not  profit:  with  riper  years  the  temptation  to  such  grati- 
fications may  be  weaker,  more  serious  thoughts  may  have 
been  awakened,  better  feelings  called  into  action.  But,  not 
to  confine  our  view  to  indulgences  which  sober  and  serious 
Christians  of  other  denominations  often  deny  themselves 
on  religious  principle,  let  us  look  further.  As  matters 
now  stand,  our  young  folks  being  all  members,  none  of 
them  could  on  the  mere  impulse  of  a  sensibility  very  com- 
mon to  youth  be  led  to  a  participation  in  the  ordinances 
now  represented  as  so  essential,  without  the  case  being 
brought  under  notice.  But  what  imaginable  right  could 
Friends  as  a  Society  have  to  interdict  a  participation  in  such 
rites  to  persons  not  within  its  own  pale,  and  owing  no  alle- 
giance, positive  or  even  implied,  to  our  laws  and  testimonies  ? 
Would  not  the  ready  and  natural  answer  of  a  young  person 
if  spoken  to  under  such  circumstances  be,  "  I  am  not  a 
member;  of  course  I  commit  no  sort  of  inconsistency,  nor 
can  I  infringe  a  law  to  which  I  am  in  no  way  subject.' ' 
8* 


90  LETTERS. 

When  I  consider  the  extremely  plausible  light  in  which  it 
is  easy  to  set  both  Baptism  and  the  Supper,  as  essential 
rites,  and  especially  enjoined :  this  too  perhaps  to  the 
young,  ardent,  and  susceptible,  first  awakened  to  serious 
thought  and  reflection  :  I  cannot  think  it  prudent,  nor  do 
I  think  we  are  called  on,  to  relax  any  of  the  rules  of  our 
discipline  during  a  period  when  I  believe  their  influence 
is  most  salutary.  I  would  not  for  one  moment  forbid  the 
use  of  these  rites  to  any  who  have  attained  an  age  to  en- 
able them  to  decide  on  their  essentiality  —  if  they  then 
deem  them  imperative,  let  them  by  all  means  act  on  that 
conviction.  But  let  us  not  expose  the  minds  of  mere 
children  to  be  prematurely  tampered  with,  and  drawn 
away  from  our  own  simple  and  spiritual  faith  —  if  we  hold 
that  faith  in  earnest  and  honest  sincerity  ourselves.  Such 
are  a  few  of  my  thoughts  on  the  subject  thou  hast  pro- 
posed :  I  have  not  time  to  dress  them  up  in  good  set 
terms,  or  to  enforce  them  by  half  the  arguments  which  I 
think  would  fully  justify  and  support  them. 


I  MUST  either  have  expressed  myself  ill,  or  thou 
must  have  misunderstood  me,  or  made  the  remark  in  thine 
from  memory,  if  the  passage  which  struck  thee  in  mine  of 
there  being  very  little  difference  between  our  seceding 
Friends  and  us,  be  really  of  my  penning.  I  might  say 
that  I  felt  quite  unable  to  define  what  the  belief  or  doctrine 
of  our  seceders  were;  or  to  what  extent  they  differ  from 
us,  except  as  to  what  they  term  ordinances.  But  a  differ- 


TO     MRS.     SUTTON.  91 

ence  on  this  point  alone,  is  not  in  my  view  a  little  one.  I 
have  no  sort  of  controversy  with  the  good  and  the  pious 
of  other  sects  who  have  always  thought  it  their  duty  to 
participate  in  such  rites;  I  have  no  desire  to  dispute  with 
those  who,  amongst  us,  thinking  such  things  to  be  essential, 
quietly  leave  us  and  join  in  religious  profession  with  those 
who  practise  them.  But  I  have  an  abiding,  and  for  aught  I 
can  see,  an  interminable  controversy  with  those  who  would 
still  hold  their  membership  with  us  by  forcing  on  us  the 
observance  of  these  rites,  and  mixing  them  up  with  our  sim- 
pler and  spiritual  creed  as  part  and  parcel  of  a  new-fangled 
system  which  they  are  pleased  to  call  Evangelical  Quakerism. 
I  get  puzzled  and  bewildered  among  these  nondescript  novel- 
ties ;  a  sprinkling,  or  water-sprinkled,  sacrament-taking  Qua- 
ker is  a  sort  of  incongruous  medley  I  can  neither  classify  nor 
understand.  Of  their  peculiar  doctrines  on  other  topics,  how 
far  they  hold  the  exclusive  dogmas  of  Calvin,  I  know  not, 
nor  do  I  care  much  to  agitate  such  questions  j  of  the  univer- 
sality of  the  offer  of  Divine  grace  to  all,  I  cannot  doubt  with 
the  Bible  before  me ;  and  to  suppose  it  offered  where  it  has 
from  eternity  been  immutably  decreed  it  could  not  or  would 
not  be  accepted,  seems  to  my  poor  head  and  heart  incompati- 
ble with  Divine  truth  and  goodness.  But  I  have  no  wish,  at 
fifty-four,  to  bother  myself  with  splitting  straws.  "The 
mighty  mystery  of  the  atonement  I  desire  to  accept  with 
humble  and  grateful  reverence,  to  lay  hold  on  the  promises 
held  out  to  me  as  a  sinner,  in  the  propitiatory  sacrifice  of  the 
Redeemer,  to  believe  his  own  gracious  promise  that  f  whoso 
cometh  unto  me,  I  will  in  no  wise  cast  out.'  "  And  with 
the  conviction  of  these  blessed  truths,  I  would  not  less  desire 
to  unite  a  firm  and  unshaken  faith  in  the  offices  and  agency 
of  the  Holy  Spirit,  its  immediate  teaching  and  guidance,  its 
consolations  and  supports.  Such  are  the  fundamental  truths, 


92  LETTERS. 

as  I  hold  them,  of  my  Christian  creed ;  for  I  cling  to  the 
old-fashioned  Quaker  profession  of  them,  as  having  fewer 
adjuncts  of  human  invention  to  lessen  their  simple,  spiritual, 
and,  as  I  think,  Scriptural  beauty,  than  any  other.  I  hope 
this  brief  and  hasty  summary  may  enable  thee  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  my  faith,  such  as  it  is,  and  so  far  as  I  know  it 
myself.  But  of  all  things  I  dislike  the  argumentative  habit 
of  critically  dissecting  every  item  of  one's  belief,  and  the 
systematizing  and  theorizing  now  so  much  in  vogue.  Pure 
spiritual  true  religion  seeks  not  to  darken  counsel,  deaden 
feeling,  and  dim  true  light,  by  words  without  knowledge; 
and  such  seems  to  me  the  unprofitable  tendency  of  no  small 
portion  of  the  teaching,  whether  oral  or  written,  of  our 
modern  would-be  instructors. 


How  any  sort  of  confusion  of  ideas  should  exist 
among  the  real  living  and  spiritually-minded  among  our 
own  Society  on  this  topic,*  is  a  marvel  and  a  mystery  to 
me  y  or  would  be,  had  not  my  own  heart  long  ago  taught 
me  how  very  soon  our  spiritual  perceptions  become  dim 
and  doubtful,  our  best  feelings  deadened,  and  our  judg- 
ment bewildered,  when  in  our  own  strength  and  wisdom 
we  set  about  forming  systems  and  codes,  and  creeds  of  our 
own,  classifying  and  arranging,  according  to  our  individual 

*  The  comparative  importance  of  the  Spirit,  or  the  written  word. 


TO     MRS.     BUTTON.  93 

appreciation  of  their  importance,  truths  and  principle? 
ALL  revealed  in  their  elementary  simplicity  by  the  holj 
volume,  all  enforced  by  the  teachings  of  God's  Holy 
Spirit,  and  all  meant,  as  I  believe,  to  be  gradually  de- 
veloped and  unfolded  to  our  individual  states,  uses,  and 
needs,  could  we  but  content  ourselves,  with  childish  sim 
plicity  of  heart,  to  accept  them  as  God  has  given  them 
Taking  with  reverent  and  truthful  humility  his  outward 
manifestation  of  his  word  as  given  forth  in  Scripture;  ac- 
cepting gratefully  his  offered  gift  of  the  Spirit,  and  pray 
ing  for  its  increase,  that  we  may  more  and  more,  through 
its  aid,  understand  those  lively  oracles  of  which  it  is  the 
source;  and  thereby  coming  to  know  in  our  individual 
experience,  that  all  the  needful  truths  and  essential  doc- 
trines revealed  in  the  one,  and  unfolded,  and  enforced,  and 
immediately  applied  by  the  other,,  must  of  necessity  form 
one  harmonious  whole,  in  which,  when  we  are  aright  in 
structed,  we  shall  see  no  discrepancies  or  inconsistencies 
But  it  is  the  natural  tendency  of  plunging  into  contro 
versy  about  the  comparative  importance  of  dogmas  and 
doctrines,  to  narrow  our  views,  and  to  make  us,  in  our 
eagerness  to  defend  what  appears  at  the  moment  of  pri- 
mary importance,  regard  that  one  topic  or  truth  as  the  one 
thing  needful  —  a  term  only  to  be  applied  to  the  whole, 
undivided,  and  harmonious  gospel  of  our  Lord,  in  its  full 
completeness. 


94  LETTERS. 


I  DO  not  like  to  see  one  Divine  gift  pitted  against 
another,  as  if  there  were,  ought  to  be,  or  could  be,  any  rivalry 
between  what  must  be  in  their  very  essence  harmonious. 
I  hold  with  the  old  faith  of  our  early  Friends,  who  were 
content  thankfully  to  receive  the  Scriptures  as  a  blessed 
and  invaluable  revelation  of  God's  will;  yet  so  far  from 
understanding  them  to  be  the  sole  and  final  one,  I  conceive 
that  one  main  end  and  intent  of  their  being  given  forth, 
was  to  inculcate  the  knowledge  of  that  Spirit  whence  they 
themselves  proceeded,  to  guide  us  to  its  teachings,  to  in- 
struct us  to  wait  for  its  influences,  under  a  conviction  that 
without  its  unfoldings  even  the  lively  oracles  of  God's 
Holy  Writ  may  be  to  us  a  dead  letter.  If  I  am  told  there 
is  a  danger  of  these  views  leading  to  a  fanatical  trust  in  a 
fanatical  inspiration  of  our  own;  I  can  only  reply,  that  I 
can  see  no  such  danger  while  we  seek  such  aid  and  guid- 
ance in  simplicity,  godly  sincerity,  and  deep  humility. 
Thus,  I  believe,  were  our  early  predecessors  eminently  led 
about  and  instructed. 


IT  was  said  by  one  of  the  early  Fathers  of  the 
Christian  church  in  his  day  of  some  who  then  with- 
drew themselves,  "  They  went  out  from  us  because  they 
were  not  of  us;"  and  the  same  may  be  said,  I  think, 
of  many  of  the  more  active  and  conspicuous  among  our 
modern  separatists.  They  knew  not  for  themselves  ex- 


TO     MRS.     SUTTON.  95 

perimentally  and  individually  the  life  and  power  of  that 
principle  by  which  Friends  were  first  gathered  to  be  a  people. 
For  it  never  was,  and  never  can  be,  attained  by  mere  birth- 
right, though  outward  membership  is ;  nor  can  it  descend  by 
inheritance.  I  can  easily  conceive  how  some  have  been  led 
to  take  the  part  they  have  taken.  Born  and  educated  among 
us,  the  latter  perhaps  at  a  time  when  religious  instruction  was 
less  thought  of  than  it  ought  to  have  been,  they  have  grown 
up  as  young  people,  Friends  in  name  and  profession,  but 
without  ever  having  been  grounded  even  in  the  elements  of 
our  peculiar  principles.  In  some  instances  I  know  individuals 
of  this  class,  living  perhaps  in  small  meetings,  and  not  often 
brought  into  intimate  acquaintance  or  cordial  intercourse  with 
the  more  excellent  of  our  body ;  they  have  been  first  taught 
to  think  and  feel  seriously  by  accidentally  falling  into  the 
way  of  religious  characters  not  of  our  Society.  In  many  such 
there  is  a  warmth  of  ardour,  an  exuberance  of  zeal,  a  prone- 
ness  to  activity  in  the  use  of  means,  and  a  life  in  religious 
converse  —  all  very  sincere  and  cordial  I  believe  on  the  part 
of  many  who  indulge  in  them  —  which  is  naturally  more 
taking  to  a  newly-awakened  mind  than  the  quiet  manner,  and 
patient  waiting,  and  silent  retirement,  which  our  views  of 
the  spirituality  of  religion  would  recommend  as  likely  to  con- 
duce to  a  real  and  effectual  growth  in  grace.  Take  the  case 
of  any  ordinary  young  person  first  awakened  to  serious 
thought  and  feeling,  and  supposing  him  or  her  to  open  their 
minds  to  not  a  few  of  our  good  Friends,  very  worthy  and 
estimable  folks  in  their  way,  but  not  exactly  the  sort  of  per- 
sons to  deal  with  minds  first  awakened  to  religious  sensibility 
— the  passive  nothingness,  the  patient  waiting,  the  searching 
after  retirement,  the  abstinence  from  creaturely  activity,  which 
such  might  probably  recommend,  must  come  recommended 
with  great  kindness  and  evident  deep  feeling  to  give  it  the 


96  LETTERS. 

least  hope  of  success ;  the  least  appearance  of  any  frigidity 
or  formality  to  a  mind  thus  excited  would  close  the  door  at 
once.  Supposing,  however,  such  a  convert  to  fall  at  such  a 
critical  period  in  the  way  of  one  of  our  Beaconites,  may  we 
not  fairly  anticipate  a  line  of  conduct  prescribed  much  more 
likely  to  be  acceptable  —  the  study  of  the  Bible  —  the  belief 
of  full,  entire,  and  complete  justification  by  faith  alone  — 
means  excellent  in  themselves,  rightly  and  well  understood, 
would  seem,  no  doubt,  to  such  a  one,  a  more  compendious 
mode  of  faith,  and  to  the  zeal  of  a  new  convert  a  more 
inviting  one.  I  do  not  say  that  a  pious  and  upright  inquirer 
might  not,  by  following  this  counsel,  come  to  the  attainment 
of  a  sound  Christian ;  but  he  (one  ?)  may  become  an  adept  in 
Biblical  knowledge  without  imbibing  its  Divine  spirit ;  and, 
from  a  fear  of  mysticism  and  fanaticism,  run  into  a  theory 
quite  as  dangerous.  For  while  I  freely  admit  the  doctrine 
of  justification  by  faith  as  I  find  it  simply  and  abstractedly 
given  in  the  gospel,  I  cannot  think  it  one  to  be  exclusively 
enforced  on  the  believer  in  all  the  stages  of  his  Christian 
progress.  Milk  for  babes,  and  meat  for  those  of  a  riper  and 
more  mature  growth,  is,  I  believe,  the  diet  prescribed  not  only 
by  gospel  wisdom,  but  emphatically  inculcated  by  the  simple 
spiritual  teaching  of  its  Divine  Founder. 


TO     MRS.     BUTTON.  97 

DOST    thou    remember    a    beautiful   passage    in 
Cowper — 

" Stillest  streams 

Oft  water  fairest  meadows,  and  the  bird 
That  flutters  least  is  longest  on  the  wing." 

So  I  believe  it  may  be  said  in  our  religious  Society,  and, 
in  fact,  in  any  other  denomination,  that  the  most  truly 
influential  members,  those  who  give  to  the  bocly  of  which 
they  form  the  life  and  essence,  to  speak  humanly,  its  form 
and  pressure,  and  stamp  on  it  the  impression  which  proves 
it  not  counterfeit,  but  sterling;  these  are  not  always  the 
most  prominent  to  the  eye  of  superficial  observation,  and 
are  seldom  found  amongst  the  loudest  talkers ;  they  are  rather 
silent  preachers,  by  the  practical  and  incontrovertible  ex- 
position of  their  lives  and  conversations,  that  they  have 
not  followed,  nor  are  following,  cunningly  devised  fables, 
but  are  partakers  of  that  living  and  eternal  substance, 
which  is  in  fact  the  true  life  of  religion  in  and  under  every 
name.  In  ordinary  times  such  pursue,  for  the  most  part, 
the  quiet  and  unobtrusive  tenor  of  their  way,  doing  each, 
in  his  or  her  own  little  sphere,  whatever  their  hands  find 
to  do,  but  with  so  little  display,  that  their  hidden  worth  is 
scarce  known,  perhaps  even  to  many  of  their  own  fellow 
professors,  until  circumstances  or  events  out  of  the  ordinary 
track  call  on  them  to  throw  their  weight  into  the  scale  one 
way  or  the  other.  Let  a  crisis  arise,  however,  or  an 
emergency  occur,  when  the  Master  thinks  fit  to  call  them 
forward,  or  His  cause  demands  their  support,  and  it  is 
wonderful  how  their  influence  is  brought  to  bear  on  the 
right  side,  and  how  silently,  yet  overwhelmingly  powerful 
that  influence  is  rendered  through  the  overruling  provi- 
dence of  Divine  grace.  Of  such  working  bees,  my  good 
9 


98  LETTERS. 

friend,  it  is  my  faith  that  our  little  hive  possesses  no  small 
number.  But  my  sheet  is  all  but  full.  All  I  wish  is,  that 
we  may  each  and  all  try  to  keep  our  proper  places,  exer- 
cise patience,  forbearance,  and  love  towards  and  with  each 
other,  and  then  I  trust  all  will  be  well.  There  is  always 
this  risk  in  controversy,  we  are  very  apt  to  misunderstand 
each  other,  and  not  very  prone  rightly  to  know  ourselves ; 
but  if  vital  and  fundamental  principles  are  to  be  attacked, 
they  must  be  defended;  may  it  be  in  the  spirit  of  meek- 
ness and  love. 


THE  more  I  see,  or  rather  hear,  of  this  lament- 
able controversy,  the  more  I  am  convinced  that  they  who 
first  agitated  it  acted  unwisely  and  unwell  in  doing  so.  I 
cannot  believe  that  to  have  had  a  right  origin  which  by  its 
natural  and  almost  inevitable  results  tends  to  disunion, 
disputation,  and  all  uncharitableness. 


THE  Society  itself,  so  far  as  I  have  any  sight, 
sense,  and  feeling  of  its  faith  and  practice,  has  in  no  re- 
spect falsified  its  own  original  and  fundamental  doctrines. 
Practically  indeed  we  may  not  be,  and  I  fear  we  are  not, 
the  plain,  simple,  single-hearted,  self-denying  people  that 
our  forefathers  were.  The  absence  of  all  that  can  be 
called  persecution;  the  substitution  of  the  world's  respect 
for  its  scorn,  of  its  smiles  for  its  frowns;  the  progress  of 


TO     MBS.     BUTTON.  99 

refinement  and  luxury,  and  many  other  operating  causes  of  a 
much  less  exceptionable  nature ;  have  gradually  more  assimi- 
lated the  bulk  of  our  Society  to  the  mass  of  our  fellow-Chris- 
tians. But  I  am  not  at  all  aware  that,  in  our  collective 
capacity  as  a  body,  we  have  avowedly  departed  from  the  faith 
of  our  ancestors.  Nor  do  I  find  that  our  seceding  brothers 
and  sisters  leave  us  under  the  plea  of  any  such  departure,  but 
simply  because  we  refuse  to  give  up  the  principles  and  prac- 
tices, the  declaration  and  adoption  of  which  formed  the  rally- 
ing point  and  starting  post  of  our  founders,  humanly  speaking, 
as  a  section  of  the  Christian  church. 


IN  science  and  art  the  progress  of  discovery  may 
bring  much  to  light,  and  the  wisest  of  men  in  these  matters 
may  have  much  to  learn  and  ts  unlearn.  But  in  the  grand 
and  essential  truths  of  the  gospel,  I  see  not  why  our  fore- 
fathers were  not  as  likely  to  be  right  as  we  can  be.  I  know 
of  no  fresh  sources  of  religious  instruction,  no  undiscovered 
or  undeveloped  fountain  of  religious  knowledge  to  which  we 
in  our  day  can  have  access,  from  which  our  pious  ancestors 
were  excluded.  And  I  am  yet  to  learn  what  oracles  of 
Divine  truth  we  can  consult,  with  which  they  were  not 
familiar.  They  had  the  outward  and  written  word,  in  which 
the  will  of  Grod  is  recorded,  in  their  hands,  and  they  certainly 
were  not  likely  to  be  strangers  to  that  inspeaking  word,  the 
voice  of  his  Spirit;  that  inshining  light  which  enlightens 
every  regenerate  Christian,  to  which  they  were  the  first 
peculiarly  to  appeal. 


100  LETTERS. 


IN  all  human  institutions,  whether  political  or 
ecclesiastical,  there  is  a  rise  and  fall  —  a  state  of  infancy, 
manhood,  and,  at  last,  of  declension  and  decrepitude ;  but 
in  proportion  as  the  bond  of  unio*  cementing  them  is  in- 
ward and  spiritual,  they  are  likely  to  be  transitory  or  en- 
during. It  is  this  spirit,  or  living  essence  of  religion 
itself,  without  reference  to  forms  and  modes  which  are 
of  necessity  ephemeral,  that  forms  the  life  and  power  on 
which  the  church  of  Christ  is  based,  and  by  which  its 
living  members  of  all  sects,  names,  and  denominations  are 
united  in  one  fellowship.  It  may  therefore  be  hoped  for 
and  believed  that,  as  far  as  any  Society  has  been  led  from 
types  and  shadows,  external  rites  and  ceremonies,  to  seek 
a  more  spiritual  faith,  its  purity  and  permanency  are  in 
some  degree  pledged  by  its  simplicity.  It  has  long  been 
my  belief  and  conviction  that  the  principles  of  Friends, 
rightly  understood,  form  the  most  pure,  most  simple,  and 
most  spiritual  code  of  faith  and  doctrine  which  the  Chris- 
tian world  exhibits ;  and,  under  this  belief,  I  can  entertain 
no  fear  of  the  decline  or  overthrow  of  them.  Whether 
the  body  first  raised  up  to  propagate  them,  or  their  suc- 
cessors to  whom  the  maintenance  of  these  testimonies  is 
now  intrusted,  may  have  their  name  as  a  people  perpetu- 
ated I  cannot  presume  to  anticipate,  but  for  the  prin- 
ciples themselves  I  entertain  no  apprehension,  because  I 
believe  them  to  be  those  of  the  everlasting  and  unchange- 
able gospel  of  Christ.  Nor  do  I  think  that  the  time  is  yet 
come  for  us  to  be  blotted  out  of  the  list  of  those  sections 
of  the  universal  church  of  Christ,  which  constitute  all  to- 
gether his  temple  on  earth. 


TO     MRS.     SUTTON.  101 


ALL  that  I  have  heard,  seen,  or  read,  only 
strengthens  my  attachment  to  old-fashioned  Quakerism.  I 
do  not  mean  that  yi  every  iota  of  manners,  habits,  and 
practice,  we  are  bound  to  follow  the  example  of  those  who 
lived  more  than  a  century  and  a  half  ago,  when  the  So- 
ciety was  in  a  very  different  state.  But  in  all  essential 
points  of  faith  and  doctrine  I  am  more  and  more  convinced 
those  old  worthies  were  substantially  sound. 


I  BELIEVE  the  unity  of  the  one  Catholic  and 
comprehensive  church  to  be  a  unity  of  spirit  and  feeling, 
and  not  only  to  be  perfectly  compatible  with  many  diversi- 
ties of  opinion  as  to  particular  doctrines,  rites,  and  cere- 
monies, but  entirely  independent  of  them.  I  should  be 
sorry  not  to  feel  somewhat  of  that  unity  with  many  from 
whom  I  differ  widely  in  many  and  various  respects.  Who 
but  must  feel  it  for  Kempis  ?  yet  this  by  no  means  implies 
any  accordance  with  the  Romish  Ritual  of  which,  I  be- 
lieve, he  was  a  docile  and  dutiful  votary  —  though  he  lived 
and  wrote  far  beyond  the  letter  and  rule  of  his  professed 
creed,  in  a  spirit  of  the  most  pure,  enlightened,  and 
spiritual  Christianity. 


9* 


TO  MR.  CLEMISHA. 


[This  correspondent  travelled  about  England  in  the  way  of  business, 
and  wrote  to  Mr.  B.  from  various  places  in  the  course  of  his  jour- 
ney, specifying  always  when  and  where  an  answer  might  reach 
him  on  the  road :  a  sort  of  "  Bo-peep"  correspondence,  as  Mr. 
B.  wrote  to  him  — "  When  I  say  '  Peep'  at  one  place,  thy  '  Bo 
conies  from  another,"] 

London,  1  mo,  8,  1843. 

I  NEVER  fancy  to  myself  that  much,  if  aught,  of 
personal  identity  can  hang  about  folks  in  London;  that 
they  can  see,  hear,  smell,  or  think,  talk,  and  feel,  as  peo- 
ple do  in  the  country.  I  can  obscurely  understand  how 
Cockneys  born  and  bred,  or  such  as  are  even  long  resident 
in  Cockaigne,  and  therefore  native  to  that  strange  element, 
may  in  course  of  time  acquire  a  sort  of  borrowed  nature, 
and  by  virtue  of  it,  a  kind  of  artificial  individuality ;  but  I 
never  was  in  London  long  enough  to  get  at  this,  and  have 
always  seemed,  when  there,  not  to  be  myself,  but  very 
much  as  if  I  were  walking  in  a  dream,  or  like  a  bit  of  sea- 
weed blown  off  some  cliff  or  beach,  and  drifting  with  the 
current  —  one  knew  not  why  or  how.  In  a  coffee-room, 
up  one  of  those  queer  long  dark  inn  yards,  I  have  felt  more 

(102) 


TO     MR.     CLEMISHA.  .      103 

like  myself;  —  there  is  more  of  quiet ;  folks  often  sit  in 
boxes  apart,  and  talk  in  a  kind  of  under-tone ;  or  when  they 
do  not,  the  united  effect  of  so  many  voices  becomes  a  sort 
of  indistinct  hum  or  buzz,,  relieved  at  intervals  by  the 
swinging  to  and  fro  of  the  coffee-room  door,  the  clatter  of 
plates,  the  jingle  of  glasses,  or  the  rustle  of  the  newspaper 
often  turned  over.  I  have  spent  an  hour  or  two  after  my 
fashion  in  this  way,  at  the  Four  Swans,  Belle  Sauvage, 
Bolt  in  Tun,  Spread  Eagle,  and  other  coach  houses,  by  no 
means  unpleasantly,  seemingly  reading  the  paper,  and  sip- 
ping my  tea  or  coffee,  wine  or  toddy,  but  really  catching 
some  amusing  scraps  of  the  talk  going  on  round,  and  specu- 
lating on  the  characters  of  the  talkers.  But  the  greatest 
luxury  London  had  to  give,  is  gone  with  my  poor  old 
friend  Allan  Cunningham.  It  was  worth  something  to 
steal  out  of  the  din  and  hubbub  of  crowded  streets  into 
those  large,  still,  cathedral-like  rooms  of  Chantrey's,  popu- 
lous with  phantom-like  statues,  or  groups  of  statues  as 
large  or  larger  than  life;  some  tinted  with  dust  and  time, 
others  of  spectral  whiteness,  but  all  silent  and  solemn;  to 
roam  about  among  these,  hearing  nothing  but  the  distant 
murmur  of  rolling  carriages,  now  and  then  the  clink  of  the 
workman's  chisel  in  some  of  the  yards  or  workshops,  but 
chiefly  the  low,  deliberate,  often  amusing,  and  always  in- 
teresting talk  of  honest  Allan,  in  broad  Scotch.  A  morning 
of  this  sort  was  well  worth  going  up  to  London  on  pur- 
pose for. 


104  LETTERS, 


11  mo,  16,  1843. 

I  AM  not  a  little  diverted  Dy  thy  taking-on 
somewhat  about  the  irksome  monotony  and  confinement 
of  a  fortnight^  spell  at  the  desk  and  figure  work,  and 
seeming  to  thyself  like  a  piece  of  machinery  in  conse- 
quence. I  have  really  been  so  unfeeling  as  to  have  a 
hearty  laugh  about  the  whole  affair.  Why,  man !  I  took 
my  seat  on  the  identical  stool  I  now  occupy  at  the  desk,  to 
the  wood  of  which  I  have  now  well-nigh  grown,  in  the 
third  month  of  the  year  1810;  and  there  I  have  sat  on 
for  three  and  thirty  blessed  years,  beside  the  odd  eight 
months,  without  one  month's  respite  in  all  that  time.  I 
believe  I  once  had  a  fortnight;  and  once  in  about  two  years, 
or  better,  I  get  a  week ;  but  all  my  absences  put  together 
would  not  make  up  the  eight  odd  months.  I  often  wonder 
that  my  health  has  stood  this  sedentary  probation  '  as  it 
has,  and  that  my  mental  faculties  have  survived  three  and 
thirty  years  of  putting  down  figures  in  three  rows,  cast- 
ing them  up,  and  carrying  them  forward  ad  infinitum. 
Nor  is  this  all  —  for  during  that  time,  I  think,  I  have  put 
forth  some  half  dozen  volumes  of  verse ;  to  say  nothing  of 
scores  and  scores  of  odd  bits  of  verse  contributed  to 
Annuals,  Periodicals,  Albums,  and  what  not;  and  a  cor- 
respondence implying  a  hundred  times  the  writing  of  all 
these  put  together :  where  is  the  wonder  that  on  the  verge 
of  sixty  I  am  somewhat  of  a  prematurely  old  man,  with 
odds  and  ends  of  infirmities  and  ailments  about  me,  which 
at  times  are  a  trial  to  the  spirits  and  a  weariness  to  the 
flesh?  But  all  the  grumbling  in  the  world  would  not 
mend  the  matter,  or  help  me,  so  I  rub  and  drive  on  as  well 
as  I  can. 


TO     MR.    CLEMISHA.  105 


6  mo,  13,  1844. 

I  AM  not  over-fond  of  polemicals ;  they  are  almost 
as  bad  as  galenicals.  How  our  tastes  alter  with  added 
years  and  enlarged  experience !  I  was  once  an  eager  dis- 
putant about  matter  and  spirit,  free-will  and  necessity, 
Unitarianism  and  Trinitarianism,  and  almost  all  other 
isms ;  and  was  in  a  fair  way  of  becoming  a  sceptic.  Hap- 
pily I  found  out,  I  hope  in  time  to  avert  such  a  catastrophe, 
that  a  man  never  stands  so  fair  a  chance  of  making  a  fool 
of  himself  as  he  does  when  he  begins  to  fancy  himself 
wiser  than  all  around  him.  It  is  no  uncommon  thing 
to  find  a  man  overtaken  in  liquor  taking  vast  pains  to 
convince  you  he  is  perfectly  sober;  I  require  no  further 
confirmation  of  his  being  drunk,  or  verging  that  way;  for 
a  man  who  is  sober,  seldom,  if  ever,  takes  the  trouble  to 
prove  the  fact.  In  like  manner,  if  I  meet  any  one  who 
gives  himself  airs  for  having  enlarged  views,  liberal  prin- 
ciples, and  freedom  from  all  the  vulgar  prejudices  by 
which  common  minds  are  enslaved,  I  have  a  lurking  dis- 
trust that  he  is,  without  knowing  it,  a  narrow-minded 
bigot,  and  very  likely  to  have  taken  up  worse  prejudices 
than  those  which  he  has  been  trying  to  shake  off. 


TO  MISS  H . 

7  mo,  29,  1840. 

Do  not  let  thy  zeal  for  a  Church*  which  I  have 
a  lurking  love  for  myself,  inasmuch  as  Izaak  Walton's 
worthies  all  belonged  to  it,  put  thee  in  any  unnecessary 
fright  about  my  dreaming  of  making  a  convert  of  thee 
from  said  Church  to  any  ism  of  my  own.  In  the  first 
place,  my  dear,  I  am  not  one  of  those  who  would  compass 
sea  and  land  to  make  proselytes  —  in  the  second,  I  am  by 
no  means  sure  that  my  ism  would  suit  either  thy  mental 
or  physical  temperament  as  it  does  mine  —  and,  thirdly, 
I  have  my  suspicions  whether  I  do  not  like  thee  best  as  a 
Churchwoman,  always  assuming  thy  honours  to  be  borne 
with  meekness,  gentleness,  and  charity.  Day,  the  author 
of  Sandford  and  Merton,  once  fell  in  love  with  Anna 
Seward;  but  having  more  of  the  Spartan  than  of  the 
dandy  in  him,  Miss  S.  did  not  like  his  manners,  and  told 
him  so :  —  poor  Day  went  to  France  to  polish  —  came  back, 
and  resumed  his  suit;  when  Miss  S.  frankly  told  him  she 
liked  Tom  Day  the  blackguard  better  than  Tom  Day  the 
beau  —  so  he  "took  nothing,"  as  the  lawyers  phrase  it,  by 
this  motion. 

*  The  Church  of  England. 

(106) 


TO     MISS     H .  107 


5  mo,  20,  1841. 

I  FORGET  whether  I  told  thee  in  my  last  of  my 
going  to  the  funeral  of  a  very  sweet,  interesting  girl  of 
nineteen,  at  my  favourite  village  of  Playford,  a  fortnight 
ago.  She  was  the  third  daughter  of  two  valued  friends  of 
mine;  her  mother  a  very  old  friend  of  mine  from  child- 
hood, and,  till  her  marriage,  a  Quaker.  As  her  religious 
principles  were  unaltered  by  marriage,  though  she  went 
to  church  with  her  husband  and  children  regularly,  none 
of  their  children  were  baptized  in  infancy,  their  mother 
wishing  their  joining  in  full  church  membership  should 
be  their  own  act  when  they  were  able  to  think  for  them- 
selves. As  they  have  grown  up  to  an  age  capable  of  de- 
ciding, I  believe  they  have  so  united  themselves  to  your 
Church.  This  lovely  girl  had  done  so  only  about  a  month 
prior  to  the  rupture  of  a  blood-vessel,  which  brought  on 
rapid  consumption,  and  carried  her  off  in  a  fortnight.  I 
went  over  to  the  funeral  by  invitation,  and  certainly  of  all 
the  funerals  I  ever  attended  it  was  one  of  the  most  affecting, 
from  the  oneness  of  feeling  and  the  audible  manifestations 
of  grief  on  the  occasion.  The  parties  who  had  been  her 
sponsors  at  baptism  a  few  weeks  before  were,  Clarkson  the 
Abolitionist,  and  his  widowed  daughter.  On  our  arrival 
at  the  little  village  church  I  found  them  quietly  seated  in 
their  pew,  into  which  I  went.  But  when  the  bier  had  to 
pass  us  up  the  aisle,  the  poor  old  man,  now  verging  on  eighty 
years  of  age,  was  so  broken  down  that  he  had  no  alternative 
but  to  give  way  to  it,  and  in  the  emphatic  language  of 
Scripture  he  fairly  lifted  up  his  voice  and  wept  aloud. 
The  family  of  the  deceased  occupied  the  next  pew,  and  a 
twin-brother,  who  had  with  great  effort  kept  his  grief 


108  LETTERS. 

under  some  control,  soon  gave  way ;  —  even  the  clergyman, 
by  his  low  and  tremulous  voice  as  he  began  the  lesson, 
seemed  hardly  equal  to  his  task.  But  as  his  voice  became 
stronger  and  firmer,  tranquillity  was  restored.  By  the 
grave-side,  however,  the  scene  again  became  quite  over- 
powering. A  chair  had  been  set  at  the  head  of  the  grave 
for  poor  old  Clarkson,  very  considerately,  but  he  had  to 
be  supported  in  it,  and  the  audible,  uncontrollable  expres- 
sion of  sorrow  on  every  hand  was  truly  heart-touching. 
When  the  usual  service  was  ended,  the  clergyman  stated 
that  it  was  the  wish  of  the  deceased,  or  rather  of  her  rela- 
tives, that  a  little  hymn  which  had  ever  been  a  great 
favourite  of  hers  should  be  sung  on  this  occasion,  and  he 
had  much  pleasure  in  complying  with  the  request.  After 
a  few  minutes,  way  was  made  for  the  children  of  the 
village  school,  which  this  estimable  girl  had  almost  made 
and  managed,  to  come  up  to  the  grave-side  —  about  twenty 
or  twenty-five  little  things,  with  eyes  and  cheeks  red  with 
crying:  I  thought  they  could  never  have  found  tongues, 
poor  things;  but  once  set  off,  they  sung  like  a  little  band 
of  cherubs.  What  added  to  the  effect  of  it,  to  me,  was  that 
it  was  a  little  almost  forgotten  hymn  of  my  own,  written 
years  ago;  which  no  one  present,  but  myself,  was  at  all 
aware  of. 


TO     MISS     H .  109 


[On  some  Church-of-England  zealots.] 

7  mo,  26,  1840. 

SUCH  men  are  like  the  good  prophet  who  was 
very  jealous  for  the  Lord  God  of  hosts,  and  believed  that 
he  only  was  left  to  serve  Him;  unto  whom  the  Lord's  own 
words  were,  "Yet  I  have  left  me  seven  thousand  in 
Israel,  who  had  not  bowed  the  knee  to  Baal."  And  thus  I 
believe  it  is  now-a-days  with  some  of  those  to  whom  I  now 
refer  —  they  would  hardly  regard  as  Christians  many  who 
conscientiously  dissent  from  the  Church  of  England.  I 
regret  this  for  their  sakes;  but  such  persuasion  on  their 
part  cannot  unchristianize  any  humble  believer  in  Christ. 
Happily,  we  shall  not  in  the  great  day  of  account  sit  in 
judgment  on  one  another,  but  shall  all  stand  before  the 
tribunal  of  One  who  cannot  err,  and  whose  mercy  is  as 
boundless  as  his  justice  is  unchangeable.  Such,  unhappily, 
is  (however)  the  infirmity  of  our  nature,  that  sometimes,  in 
proportion  to  our  own  zeal  and  devotedness  to  what  we 
regard  as  the  voice  of  God,  given  forth  in  his  holy  word, 
is  our  interpretation  of  all  who  do  not  read  that  blessed 
word  through  our  own  spectacles.  Like  those  disciples 
of  old,  who  went  to  the  Saviour,  saying,  "We  saw  one 
casting  out  devils  in  Thy  name,  and  we  forbade  him,  be- 
cause he  followeth  not  us } "  —  there  are  those  who  seem  as 
if  they  never  asked  themselves  touching  a  professing  fel- 
low-Christian differing  from  themselves  in  certain  points : 
"Does  he  believe  in  our  one  common  Master?  Does  he 
look  for  salvation  through  His  cross  ?  Has  he  been  born 
again  of  His  Spirit?  Do  his  life  and  the  pervading  tone 
of  his  spirit  bear  evidence  that  he  has  been  with  Jesus?" 
10 


110  LETTERS. 

These  are  not  the  questions  —  the  one  to  be  first  answered 
is,  whether  he  followeth  us?  —  "'Tis  true  'tis  pity:  pity 
'tis  'tis  true!"  But  such  is  human  nature,  when  warped 
by  either  sectarianism  or  Churchanity;  for  this  sad  spirit 
is  by  no  means  monopolized  by  your  ultras  on  the  Church 
side.  I  have  seen  some  of  the  old  orthodox  Dissenters,  of 
the  genuine  crab-stock  stamp,  woefully  leavened  with  the 
same  spirit;  and,  what  made  it  the  worse,  some  of  these 
zealots  on  both  sides  were  and  are  persons  who,  God-ward 
and  man-ward,  were  alike  "sans  peur  et  sans  reproche;" 
men  whose  praise  was  and  is  justly  heard  in  their  respective 
Churches ;  only,  alas  !  men  mistaking  a  part  for  the  whole, 
and  taking  their  own  one-sided  view  of  Christianity  as  the 
only  true  one,  instead  of  looking  at  it  in  its  full  and  entire 
completeness,  and  imbibing  that  generous  and  comprehensive 
spirit  which  is  its  very  essence. 


TO     MARY     W ,     ON     THE     DEATH     OF     HER 

FATHER. 

12  mo,  17,  1842. 

OUR  poor  frail  and  infirm  nature,  dear  Mary,  is 
sadly  prone  to  render  us  unjust  to  ourselves,  as  well  as 
unthankful  to  our  heavenly  Father,  under  such  trials  as 
these.  We  hear  no  more  the  voice  we  loved  —  we  see  no 
more  the  form  so  dear  to  us  —  for  we  still  dwell  in  these 
clay  houses :  but  could  we  see,  as  we  (for  aught  we  know) 
are  seen  by  those  dear  to  us,  who  are  unclothed  of  mor- 


TO     MISS     H .  Ill 

tality,  should  we  then  say  there  was  no  union  or  com- 
munion left  between  us  and  the  loved  ones  who  are  gone 
but  a  little,  perhaps,  before  us  ?  O,  believe  it  not !  —  Thy 
beloved  father  is  as  much  thy  father  in  his  present  happi- 
ness as  in  his  past  helplessness. 


Aldeburgh,  7  mo,  19,  1844. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

THIS  is  our/  nearest  Suffolk  watering-place; 
and  having  had  to  fag  harder  than  usual  of  late,  I  deter- 
mined yesterday  to  enjoy  a  quiet  Sabbath  by  the  sea.  So 
I  have  persuaded  Tills  to  drive  me  down.  We  have  no 
Quakerly  meeting-house  here,  and,  having  come  down  for 
the  express  purpose  of  inhaling  the  sea-breezes,  I  have 
resolved  on  getting  all  I  can  of  them.  Tills  is  gone  to 
church,  and  has  left  me  alone  in  a  delightful  room,  from 
the  window  of  which  I  could  throw  a  stone  into  the  German 
Ocean.  I  have  therefore  set  the  window  open,  drawn  the 
table  close  up  to  it,  and  have  been  seated  for  the  last  half- 
hour,  lulled  by  the  ripple  of  the  waves  on  the  beach, 
and  drawing  in  at  every  breath,  I  hope,  some  renewal 
of  health  and  spirits  for  the  desk-work  of  the  next  fort- 
night. 


TO  ELIZABETH  AND  MARIA  C . 

[Describing  pictures  in  his  study.] 

5  mo,  14,  1842. 

*  ON  each  side  of  the  window  hangs  a 
portrait,  and  a  third  portrait,  of  old  Chambers,  the  itiner- 
ant poetaster,  hangs  in  one  corner;  the  last-named  was 
painted  by  Mendham,  of  Eye,  the  same  self-taught  Suf- 
folk artist  who  painted  the  Old  Man  and  Child,  that  hangs 
over  the  piano.  The  other  two  portraits  are  quite  un- 
known to  thee,  but  I  hope  one  day  or  other  to  show  them 
to  thee.  They  were  picked  up  by  E.  F in  his  ex- 
ploratory visits  to  brokers'  shops  about  town.  One  is  a 
portrait  of  Stothard  the  painter,  by  Northcote,  a  careless, 
hasty  oil  sketch,  but  very  effective  and  pleasing,  being,  in 
truth,  a  speaking  likeness  of  a  benevolent,  happy,  and  in- 
telligent-looking gentleman  of  between  sixty  and  seventy, 
perhaps  nearer  the  latter  than  the  former,  if,  indeed,  the 
original  were  not  more  than  seventy.  Any  how  it  is  a 
delightful  specimen  of  green  old  age,  placid  and  cheerful. 
The  other,  Edward  will  have  to  be  the  portrait,  by  anti- 
cipation, of  Bill  Sykes,  in  Oliver  Twist.  I  call  it  Peter 
Bell !  The  fellow  has,  I  own,  a  somewhat  villanous  aspect, 
and  his  arms  are  brought  forward  in  a  way  that  con- 
veys a  fearful  suspicion  that  his  hands,  luckily  not  given, 

(112) 


TO    ELIZABETH    AND     MARIA   0 .       113 

are  fettered.  His  elf-locks  look  as  they  had  never  known 
sizzors,  (I  don't  believe  I  have  spelt  that  word  right,  but 
I  never  had  to  write  it  before,)  but  had  been  hacked  away 
with  a  blunt  knife ;  his  upper  lip  and  all  the  lower  part  of 
the  face  cannot  have  been  shaven  for  a  week;  yet  there 
is  a  touch  of  compunction  about  the  full,  dark,  and  melan- 
choly eyes,  which  will  not  allow  me  to  pronounce  the  fel- 
low altogether  bad.  The  broker  who  sold  it  to  Edward, 
called  it  a  portrait  of  a  gamekeeper,  and  said  it  was  by 
Northcote.  I  opine  it  to  be  by  Opie.  Fuseli  once  said 
in  his  caustic  way,  that  Opie  never  painted  any  characters 
so  well  as  cut-throats  and  villains,  and  acquitted  himself 
best  in  these  when  he  studied  his  own  features  well  in  a 
glass,  before  he  sat  down  to  his  easel;  but  that  was  vile 
on  the  part  of  Fuseli,  for  I  have  seen  a  portrait  of  Opie 
without  a  taint  of  villany.  But  be  the  thing  hanging 
before  me  by  whom  it  may,  or  a  semblance  of  whom  it 
will,  I  would  not  take  a  £10  note  for  it.  It  can  be  no 
fancy  sketch;  there  is  a  reality  about  it  there  is  no  mis- 
taking. 


7  mo,  16,  1842. 
MY  DEAR  LlBBY, 

MY  good  cousin  Bessy  A ,  from  Gr ,  has 

been  L.'s  guest  more  than  a  week,  and  the  day  after  she 
came  I  told  her  that  I  expected  a  letter  from  Libby  C — 
on  the  morrow.  On  her  wanting  to  know  why  I  expected 
such  an  arrival,  I  gave  her  divers  most  excellent  reasons; 
reasons  enough  to  satisfy  the  most  incredulous.  I  had 
10* 


114  LETTERS. 

written  to  thee  I  know  not  how  long  before;  I  had  sent 
thee,  and  lent  thee  the  world  and  all  of  rhymes ;  and  had 
furnished  thee  with  a  subject  on  which  to  write  more, 
which  confessedly  took  thy  fancy,  so  that  I  was  in  daily 
expectation  of  reaping  the  fruit,  a  golden  harvest.  I  put 
her  in  mind  that  it  was  no  effort  in  the  world  to  thee  to 
write  letters.  In  short,  I  argued  the  point  with  her  in  a 
manner  the  most  convincing,  but  I  convinced  her  not  that 
a  letter  would  come  on  the  morrow.  Nor  did  I  convince 
L — ;  but  then,  from  never  writing  letters  herself,  she  has 
grown  into  an  unbeliever,  or  nearly  so,  that  letters  are  to 
be  written.  However  no  letter  has  come,  and  I  begin  to 
grow  sceptical  myself,  not  as  to  the  fact  of  letters  being 
writeable,  but  as  to  there  being  such  a  person  as  E.  C — 
to  write  them,  unless  they  are  to  reach  one  through 
that  mysterious  office  which  used  to  convey  Mrs.  Howe's 
letters  from  the  dead  to  the  living.  I  begin  to  have  the 
oddest  and  queerest  misgivings  as  to  whether  that  mi- 
gratory life  of  thine  thou  hast  lived  so  long,  may  not  have 
attenuated  all  that  was  bodily  in  thee  into  air,  thin  air! 
and  when  one  begins  to  admit  a  doubt  as  to  the  bodily  ex- 
istence of  an  old  correspondent,  hosts  of  thick-coming 
fancies  flock  in ;  if  I  begin  to  doubt  whether  there  be  now 
a  Libby  C —  in  positive  and  real  substance  moving  about 
on  this  world  of  ours,  what  proof  have  I  there  ever  was 
such  a  person?  I  once  read  a  very  ingenious  treatise 
written  to  show  that  there  never  was  such  a  person  as 
Napoleon ;  methinks  I  could  write  one  full  as  plausible  to 
show  that  there  never  was  an  Elizabeth  C — .  While  I 
kept  on  having  letters  from  thee,  a  sort  of  vague  idea  that 
there  was  some  where  a  somebody,  or  something,  cor- 
poreal, or  spiritual,  or  both,  which  answered  —  being  so 
addressed  or  apostrophized,  tended  to  perpetuate  the  idea 


TO     ELIZABETH    AND     MARIAC 115 

of  thy  reality.  I  could  think  of  thee,  as  one  does  of  the 
wandering  Jew  of  antiquity,  and  I  had  thoughts  of  ad- 
dressing thee  in  verse,  with  these  lines  of  Wordsworth  for 
my  motto — 

"  O  cuckoo !  shall  I  call  thee  bird  ? 
Or  but  a  wandering  voice ! " 

but  the  voice  having  ceased  to  make  its  responses,  I  am  at 
a  loss  what  to  think,  or  to  do;  so  I  just  scribble  these  lines 
as  a  sort  of  last  resource,  a  forlorn  hope. 


TO     MARIA     C . 

10  mo,  17,  1844. 

I  GO  out  so  rarely  that  I  am  in  a  state  of  be- 
wilderment on  such  occasions,  and  seem  to  myself  to  be  as 
one  walking  in  a  dream.  It  can  therefore  hardly  be 
strange  that  I  should  have  lost  thy  letter,  having  at  that 
period  lost  myself.  —  Don't  think  it  any  mark  of  disrespect 
to  thyself,  for  had  I  been  favoured  with  one  from  the 
queen  of  Sheba,  on  the  theory  of  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Howe's 
"Letters  from  the  Dead  to  the  Living/'  it  would  in  all 
likelihood  have  fared  no  better.  How  should  a  man  be  a 
safe  keeper  of  anything,  when,  a  change  of  locality  having 
clean  taken  him  out  of  himself,  he  is  no  longer,  in  fact, 
himself.  I  have  been  home  two  days,  but  I  am  not  my- 
self yet.  It  will  take  a  good  fortnight  ere  I  shall  fully 
regain  my  personal  identity.  I  keep  picking  up,  in  lucid 


116  LETTERS. 

intervals,  first  one  and  then  another  of  the  disjuncta  mem- 
bra of  my  old  self — as  children  put  together  a  dissected 
puzzle,  which  they  have  a  vague  memory  of  having  put 
together  before.  But  enough  of  this  confused  babble. 


Woodbridge,  9  mo,  4,  1844. 

DEAR  MARIA, 

DOES  not  this  "  look  like  business  ? "  as  Con- 
stable's men  said  to  my  artist  friend,  when  he  set  up  his 
easel  behind  Flatford  Mill,  to  paint  Willy  Lett's  house.  I 
have  hardly  started  thee  from  our  gate,  when  I  am  in  my 
cabin  writing  a  letter,  or  letteret,  to  greet  thee  at  the 
morrow's  breakfast  table.  What  I  shall  find  to  put  into 
it,  I  will  not  now  stop  to  ask  myself.  First  and  foremost, 
Lucy  and  the  monkey*  send  all  sorts  of  kind  and  cordial 
greetings,  which  they  say  must  be  specially  welcome  after 
the  absence  of  a  whole  night.  Secondly,  we  are  all  of  us 
charmed  with  your  flying  visit,  and  should  have  been  still 
more  charmed  had  it  been  a  less  flying  one,  for  the  whole 
thing  was  such  a  whirl,  there  was  not  time  to  group  you  in 
tableaux,  far  less  to  study  or  contemplate  you  individually ; 
it  was  for  all  the  world  like  a  peep  into  a  kaleidoscope, 
before  the  component  items  have  shaped  themselves  into 
any  symmetrical  whole;  and  so  you  keep  flitting  before 
my  vision  at  this  moment.  Grandmamma  prominent  one 
minute,  then  those  Tivetshall  girls,  then  Libby  and  thee. 

*  A  pet  niece. 


TO    ELIZABETH    AND    MARIA    C .        1.17 

Then  come  Samuel  and  the  Etonian,  and  Miss  B bring- 
ing up  the  rear.  It  was  certainly  a  thing  to  be  thankful 
for,  to  get  such  a  group  together,  even  to  have  a  glimpse 
of,  but  one  can  hardly  help  regretting  it  was  for  a  glimpse 
only.  Old  proverbs,  'tis  true,  say  somewhat  of  welcoming 
the  coming  and  speeding  the  parting  guest.  But  the  latter 
was  scarcely  necessary  when  guests  speed  themselves  off  so 
rapidly.  However,  I  will  not  grumble,  but  try  and  be  most 
thankful  for  the  moment  you  did  give  us. 


TO  MR.   FULCHER, 

EDITOR   AND   PUBLISHER   OP 

THE  SUDBURY   POCKET   BOOK. 

10  mo,  29,  1832. 

THY  packet  of  Pocket  Books,  for  which  I  thank 
thee,  reached  me  on  Saturday  night. 

The  poetry,  original  and  selected,  is,  I  think,  quite  on 
a  par  with  that  of  former  years  —  with  one  exception,  to 
which  I  shall  refer  presently;  only,, that  I  think  thou  art 
somewhat  too  partial  to  Robert  Montgomery  in  thy  glean- 
ings. Tastes,  to  be  sure,  have  a  proverbial  right  to  differ 
—  but  I  never  could  get  through  a  volume  of  Robert's  yet. 
But  I  am  too  eager  to  get  to  my  exception  in  thy  original 
poetry,  to  say  another  word  about  the  bard  of  Satan. 

That  exception,  then,  has  reference  to  the  first  piece  — 
"The  dying  Infant"  —  to  which  I  see  thy  initials  are 
appended,  and  which  I  pronounce  to  be  as  much  superior 
to  any  piece  which  has  yet  appeared  in  any  of  thy  Pocket 
Books  as  the  poetry  of  James  is  to  that  of  Robert  Mont- 
gomery. They  say  poets  are  loth  to  award  cordial  praise 
to  the  efforts  of  their  contemporaries,  but  I  will  praise  this 
most  heartily ;  nor  do  I  at  all  believe  that  any  one  of  the 
forthcoming  annuals,  with  all  their  proud  pretence  and 

(118) 


TO     MR.     FULCHEE.  119 

lists  of  eminent  contributors,  will  have  a  piece  at  all  ap- 
proaching to  it  in  excellence.  Marry,  an'  thou  writest 
such  stanzas,  I  shall  fight  shy  of  figuring  in  thy  pages  as  a 
foil  to  their  Editor's  own  contributions.  I  do  not  know 
that  I  shall  not  turn  Pocket  Book  Reviewer,  for  the  mere 
purpose  of  making  the  poem  known ;  but  it  is  needless. 
Thine  in  haste, 

B.  B. 

P.  S.  Don't  bother  me  about  politics,  which  I  care  not  a 
rush  about  (by  comparison)  while  I  can  have  such  nursery 
rhymes  to  read. 


The  following  is   the   very  pretty  poem   to  which   Mr. 
Barton  alludes:  — 

THE  DYING  CHILD. 

"  What  should  it  know  of  death  ?"—  Wordsworth. 

Come  closer,  closer,  dear  Mamma, 

My  heart  is  filled  with  fears; 
My  eyes  are  dark,  I  hear  your  sobs, 

But  cannot  see  your  tears. 

I  feel  your  warm  breath  on  my  lips, 

That  are  so  icy  cold:  — 
Come  closer,  closer,  dear  Mamma, 

Give  me  your  hand  to  hold. 

I  quite  forget  my  little  hymn, 

"How  doth  the  busy  bee," 
Which  every  day  I  used  to  say, 

When  sitting  on  your  knee. 

Nor  can  I  recollect  my  prayers 

And,  dear  Mamma,  you  know 
That  the  great  God  will  angry  be, 

If  I  forget  them  too. 


120  LETTERS. 


And  dear  Papa,  when  he  comes  home, 

Oh  will  he  not  be  vex'd  ? 
"Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread;"  — 

What  is  it  that  comes  next? 
"  Thine  is  the  kingdom  and  the  power  :"  — 

I  cannot  think  of  more, 
It  comes  and  goes  away  so  quick, 

It  never  did  before. 
"  Hush,  Darling !  you  are  going  to 

The  bright  and  blessed  sky, 
Where  all  God's  holy  children  go, 

To  live  with  him  on  high." 
But  will  he  love  me,  dear  Mamma, 

As  tenderly  as  you? 
And  will  my  own  Papa,  one  day, 

Come  and  live  with  me  too? 
But  you  must  first  lay  me  to  sleep, 

Where  Grand-papa  is  laid ; 
Is  not  the  Churchyard  cold  and  dark, 

And  sha'n't  I  feel  afraid  ? 
And  will  you  every  evening  come, 

And  say  my  pretty  prayer 
Over  poor  Lucy's  little  grave, 

And  see  that  no  one's  there? 
And  promise  me,  whene'er  you  die, 

That  they  your  grave  shall  make 
The  next  to  mine,  that  I  may  be 

Close  to  you  when  I  wake. 

Nay,  do  not  leave  me,  dear  mamma, 

Your  watch  beside  me  keep : 
My  heart  feels  cold  —  the  room's  all  dark ; 

Now  lay  me  down  to  sleep :  — 

And  should  I  sleep  to  wake  no  more, 

Dear,  dear  Mamma,  good-bye : 
Poor  nurse  is  kind,  but  oh  do  you 

Be  with  me  when  I  die !  G.  W.  F. 


TO     MR.     PULCHER.  121 


[On  proposing  a  portrait  of  Jemmy  Chambers*  as  a  frontispiece  for 
Mr.  Fulcher's  "Ladies'  Pocket  Book." 


4  mo,  6, 1838. 

LADIES  are  somewhat  fond  of  pet  oddities.  An 
old,  tattered,  weather-beaten  object,  like  old  Chambers,  is 
the  very  thing  to  take  their  fancies.  Why,  when  the  poor 
wretch  was  living,  and  had  located  himself  hereabouts,  his 
best  friends  were  the  ladies.  When  they  stopped  to  speak 
to  the  old  man,  to  be  sure,  they  would  get  to  windward 
of  him,  as  a  matter  of  taste ;  for  he  was  a  walking  dung- 
hill, poor  fellow,  most  of  his  wardrobe  looking  as  if  it  had 
been  picked  off  some  such  repositories,  and  his  hands  and 
face  bearing  evident  marks  of  his  antipathy  to  soap  and 

*  One  of  those  Edie  Ochiltrees,  who,  by  virtue  of  a  Blue  Gown, 
or  of  a  genius  that  will  not  be  gainsaid,  are  privileged  to  go  about  a 
neighbourhood  and  pick  up  a  scanty  subsistence  from  the  charity  and 
curiosity  of  the  inhabitants.  He  was  born  at  Soham,  in  Cambridge- 
shire ;  but  for  the  latter  years  of  his  life  wandered  about  Wood- 
bridge,  housing  himself  at  times  in  a  half-ruined  cottage  called  Cold 
Hall,  on  a  hill  overlooking  the  town  and  river.  "His  poetry,  or 
what  he  put  forth  as  such,"  wrote  Mr.  Barton  again,  "  was  poor 
doggerel ;  but  he  himself,  and  the  life  he  led,  are  (or  were)  full  of 
poetry ; — now  sleeping  in  a  barn,  cow-house,  or  cart-shed  ;  at  others, 
in  woods ;  but  always  '  in  the  eye  of  nature,'  as  Daddy  Wordsworth 
said  of  his  Cumberland  beggar."  So  Jemmy  Chambers  went  about, 
with  two  or  three  dogs  for  company,  one  of  which  he  carried  in  his 
arms.  No  gift  of  clothes  could  induce  him  to  keep  them  or  himself 
clean ;  he  would  not  stay  in  a  house  that  was  once  fitted  up  for  him. 
He  died  about  twenty-five  years  ago.  The  portrait  here  spoken  of 
represents  him  in  his  dirty  habits  as  he  lived,  about  to  indite  some 
of  his  acrostics,  his  dogs  about  him,  and  he  himself  a  vigorous  old 
man  with  a  face  like  Homer's. 
11 


122  LETTERS. 

water.  Yet,  though  he  was  the  very  opposite  of  a  lady's 
lap-dog,  curled,  combed,  washed,  and  perfumed,  he  had 
his  interest,  and  it  was  pretty  effective  too,  with  the  sex. 
His  wretched  appearance  was  sure  to  appeal  to  their  com- 
passion :  the  solitary  wandering  life  he  led,  his  reputed 
minstrel  talent,  some  little  smattering  of  book-learning, 
which  he  would  now  and  then  display  —  in  short,  I  might 
write  a  regular  treatise,  giving  very  philosophical  reasons 

why  C was  quite  a  "lady's  man." 

As  to  thy  election  politics,  I  pity  thee.  Politics  of  any 
sort,  or  of  all  sorts,  are  not  to  my  taste;  but  those  con- 
nected with  electioneering  tactics  are  the  most  loathsome. 
I  would  as  soon  turn  in  three  in  a  bed  with  two  like 
Chambers,  as  go  through  the  endurance  of  an  election 

at  I or  S- .     Believe  me,  this  is  no  "fagon 

de  parler"  —  for  I  should  be  truly  sorry  a  dog  of  mine,  for 
whose  respectability  I  felt  the  least  regard,  should  be  put 
in  nomination  for  either  place. 


11  mo,  3,  1842. 

THIS  very  sudden  news  of  poor  Allan  Cunning- 
ham's death  has  both  shocked  and  grieved  me.  I  had  a 
letter  from  him  on  Friday  morning  last  —  I  suspect  the 
last  he  wrote  —  it  was  in  his  old  cordial,  kindly  tone,  but 
evidently  written  by  an  invalid.  So  I  sat  me  down  on 
Saturday  night,  and  wrote  him  a  long  epistle,  urging  him 
to  come  down  to  Lucy  and  me  for  a  week,  as  I  was  quite 
in  hopes  a  few  days'  country  air  and  quiet  relaxation  would 


TO    MR.     FULCHER.  123 

do  him  good.  I  exerted  all  my  powers  of  persuasion  as 
eloquently  as  I  could,  of  course  to  no  purpose,  for  at  the 
very  time  I  was  writing  he  was  dying.  And  so  I  have 
lost  my  old  favourite  —  him  whom  Charles  Lamb  used  to 
call  the  "large-hearted  Scot" — and  a  large  and  warm, 
heart  he  had  of  his  own.  It  seems  to  me  now  as  if  I 
never  would  give  a  fig  to  go  to  town  again.  The  very  last 
time  I  was  there,  Lucy  and  I  spent  a  morning  at  Chan- 
trey's,  walking  with  Allan  about  those  great  rooms,  each 
of  them  as  big  as  a  little  cathedral,  and  swarming  with 
statues  —  busts  and  groups  —  many  as  large  as  life  —  all  still 
as  death.  It  was  worth  somewhat  to  sit  at  the  foot  of 
some  grand  mass  of  stone  or  marble,  and  hear  Allan  talk 
about  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  Sir  Francis,  and  Wilkie,  and 
Burns;  —  or  when  he  was  still,  and  we  as  mute,  to  look 
round  at  all  those  glorious  works  of  art,  till  we  ourselves 
seemed  to  grow  into  stone  like  them ;  —  and  now  and  then 
the  din  of  the  great  Babel  without,  faintly  heard  there, 
would  come  upon  us  like  echoes  from  another  world,  with 
which  we  then  had  no  concern.  We  shall  never  go  there 
more.  Sir  Francis  and  Allan,  both  then  living,  are  now 
dead  as  the  wonders  they  created ;  —  the  rooms  are  stripped ; 
—  and  there's  an  end  of  that  beautiful  chapter  in  one's 
little  life. 


124  LETTERS 


5  mo,  31,  1843. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

I  AM  not  over-much  taken  with  either  thy  fron- 
tispiece or  vignette*  —  I  mean,  as  subjects  for  poetry  —  for, 
as  architectural  drawings,  I  own  they  are  very  pretty. 
Thou  hast  very  cleverly  hinted  how  they  might  become 
matters  for  rhyme  — 

"  But  we,  who  make  no  honey,  though  we  sting, 
Poets  —  are  sometimes  apt  to  maul  the  thing." 

There  is  somewhat  to  me  bordering  on  a  sad  joke  in 
building  a  splendid  Corn  Exchange,  and  surmounting  it 
by  figures  wielding  the  sickle  or  holding  the  plough,  when 
what  is  termed  the  agricultural  interest,  and  those  con- 
cerned in  it,  are  either  ruined  or  on  the  brink  of  being  so. 
Again,  of  your  Town  Hall,  its  antiquity  is  its  sole  poetical 
feature.  After  the  unenviable  notoriety  your  auld  town 
has  of  late  acquired,  for  what  it  has  witnessed  of  your  elec- 
tion doings,  truth  to  speak,  "  least  said  is  soonest  mended." 
I  think,  were  I  a  free  burgess,  I  should  prefer  its  senatorial 
honours  should,  for  the  present,  remain  unsung. 

My  daughter  requests  me  to  say,  with  her  best  regards 
to  Mrs.  F.  and  thyself,  that  she  earnestly  hopes  thy 
next  will  have  no  blue  ink  printing  in  it ;  for  it  is  a  sore 
trial  to  the  eyesight.  I  have  heard  many  others  make  the 
same  complaint.  Whig  as  I  am,  I  could  much  sooner  for- 
give thee  thy  bluef  politics  than  thy  blue  ink;  the  first 
are  no  bore  to  me,  for  I  no  more  trouble  myself  about  the 

*  Sent  to  him  to  rhyme  upon,  for  Mr.  Fulcher's  Pocket  Book, 
t  Blue  is  the  colour  of  the  Tory  party  in  Suffolk — Yellow,  of  the 
Whig. 


TO     MR.     FULCHER.  125 

colour  of  a  man's  politics,  than  about  the  colour  of  the  coat 
he  may  choose  to  wear ;  but  I  would  not  wish  thy  Pocket 
Book  to  be  unreadable  while  I  write  poetry  for  it. 


1  mo,  21,  1844. 

I  HAVE  been  sad  and  sick  at  heart  for  several 
weeks,  owing  to  the  illness  and  death  of  an  only  and  fa- 
vourite sister ;  and  just  as  the  raw  edge  of  that  wound  was 
abating  of  its  first  anguish,  have  another  trial  to  encounter 
which  costs  me  little  less  of  heart-sorrow.  My  old  and  dear 

friend   Dr.  L ,  who  for  eight  and   thirty  years   has 

been  a  friend  sticking  closer  than  a  brother  —  who  closed 
the  eyes  of  my  wife,  and  was  one  of  the  first  on  whom  my 
child's  first  opened  —  is  about  to  retire  from  practice  as  a 
physician,  and  leave  Woodbridge  to  be  nearer  his  only 
child,  now  settled  in  Norwich.  I  could  almost  as  soon 
have  looked  for  Woodbridge  church  to  have  walked  off 
as  he  —  the  idea  that  he  could  live  elsewhere,  or  that 
Woodbridge  could  go  on  without  him,  never  once  occurred 
to  me.  Well  might  old  Johnson  say, 

"  Conderan'd  to  hope's  delusive  mine, 

As  on  we  toil  from  day  to  day, 
By  sudden  blast,  or  slow  decline, 
Our  social  comforts  drop  away." 

I  actually  begin  to  draw  comfort  from   the   thought   that 
we  too  must,  ere  long,  drop  away  too.     I  seem  daily  to  have 
less  to  cling  to. 
11* 


126  LETTERS. 


[On  returning  to  Mr.  Fulcher  the  proof  of  some  verses  for  the 
Pocket  Book.] 

8  mo,  9, 1844. 
DEAR  R, 

WITH  the  exception  of  one  trifling  error  in  the 
last  piece,  where  the  letter  n  has  been  put  instead  of  u,  I 
see  not  but  that  thy  typographical  bill  of  fare,  now  re- 
turned, is  faultless.  I  hope  they  will  not  follow  in  thy 
pages  seriatim  as  they  stand  on  this  portentous  ballad- 
looking  strip  of  paper,  or  thy  readers  will  think  there  is 
no  end  of  me.  Sprinkled  about,  with  other  folk's  rhymes 
filling  up  the  "interstices  between  the  intersections,"  as 
old  Johnson  said  of  network,  they  may  pass.  But  I  had  no 
notion  I  had  sent  thee  such  a  lot.  I  have  had  the  curi- 
osity to  measure  the  length  of  my  contribution,  and  find  it 
is  a  good  two  feet ;  besides  which,  I  sent  thee  "  Glemham 
Hall"  and  some  enigmatical  rhyme.  So  I  must  have  sup- 
plied thee  with  an  honest  yard  of  poetry.  A  fact,  I  think, 
worthy  of  being  recorded  on  my  tomb-stone,  if  I  should  ever 
have  one ;  which,  as  I  am  a  Quaker,  is  questionable. 

I  told  thee  when  I  got  that  cheque  of  thee  to  help  me  to 
the  Constable  landscape,  that  I  would  work  it  out.  If  a 
whole  yard  of  rhyme  has  not  cleared  off  that  score  and  left 
a  trifle  for  a  nest  egg,  I  can  only  say,  the  more  the  shame 
and  the  greater  the  pity.  But  I  was  bent  on  making  my 
last  appearance  in  thy  P.  B.  with  some  eclat,  for  I  think 
it  grows  time  for  me  to  make  my  bow  and  retire  from  the 
vain  and  unprofitable  vocation.  No  man  can  go  on 
scribbling  verse  for  ever,  and  not  weary  out  his  readers  or 
himself.  I  begin  to  feel  somewhat  of  the  latter  symptoms ;  I 
think  it  very  likely  thy  readers  may  have  gotten  the  start  of 


TO     MR.     FULCHER.  127 

me.  Any  how,  I  think  I  have  earned  a  furlough  for  a 
few  years  to  come ;  so  I  give  thee  fair  notice,  not  to  cal- 
culate on  my  appearing  on  parade  when  the  drum  beats 
again.  I  shall  not  feel  the  less  cordial  interest  in  thy 
pretty  little  annual,  or  recommend  it  the  less  heartily ;  but 
I  appeal  to  thee  candidly  and  fearlessly,  if  three  full  ap- 
prenticeships ought  not  to  entitle  me  to  make  my  bow  and 
leave  the  field  honourably.  Our  intercourse,  in  a  friendly 
way,  will  not,  I  hope,  be  in  any  degree  affected  by  this  —  I 
should  be  very  sorry  indeed  it  were.  Give  my  kindest 
regards  to  Mrs.  F.,  and  believe  me,  my  old  friend, 
Ever  affectionately, 

B.  B. 


TO  MISS  BETHAM. 

4  mo,  7,  1845. 

L.  is  gone  to  a  concert,  and,  truth  to  tell,  I  was 
sorely  tempted  to  go  myself:  but  it  was  to  be  performed 
at  the  theatre  —  rather  an  un-Quakerish  locality;  and,  as 

J and  A ,  though  tempted  like  myself,  seemed  to 

think  it  would  not  do  for  them  to  go,  I,  who  have  less 
music  in  my  ear,  though  I  natter  myself  I  have  some  in 
my  soul,  could  not  with  decent  propriety  be  the  only 
Quaker  there.  But  I  had  a  vast  curiosity  to  go ;  for  it  is 
not  an  ordinary  concert,  but  performed  on  certain  pieces 
of  rock,  hewn  out  of  Skiddaw,  which,  struck  with  some 
metal  instrument,  emit  sounds  of  most  exquisite  sweet- 
ness. We  have  heard  of  sermons  from  stones,  but  I 
never  dreamt  -of  going  there  for  music ;  but  we  live  in  a 
wondrous  age  for  inventions  of  all  sorts :  so  I,  for  one,  by 
no  means  despair  of  seeing  a  silken  purse  made  out  of  a 
sow's  ear,  in  defiance  of  the  proverbial  wisdom  of  our 
ancestors. 


(128) 


TO  THE  REV.  T.  W.  SALMON. 


8  mo,  9, 1840. 

I  HAVE  been  for  two  days  turning  over  to  me  a  new 
leaf  in  the  varied  volume  of  human  life ;  having  been  sup- 
poenaed  as  a  witness  to  the  Assizes,  on  a  trivial  cause,  where 
my  evidence  was  deemed  requisite.  So  I  have  spent  two 
days  in  Court,  one  in  the  Crown,  or  Criminal  side,  and 
one  in  the  Nisi  Prius  Court.  As  I  had  never  before  seen 
any  thing  of  the  administration  of  justice,  I  could  not  but 
feel  greatly  interested  in  the  proceedings,  more  especially  in 
those  of  the  Criminal  Court.  In  the  other,  the  only  trial  I 
heard  was  a  tedious  squabble  about  throwing  up  the  lease  of 
a  house  at  Newmarket,  in  which  there  appeared  to  me  a 
confused  and  contradictory  mass  of  evidence  on  the  part  of 
near  thirty  witnesses,  and  a  great  waste  of  words  on  the  part 
of  four  counsel,  with  a  charge  equally  bewildering  on  the 
part  of  the  learned  judge  —  who  honestly  told  the  jury  at 
the  opening  of  it  that  he  was  very  thankful  the  case  was  in 
their  hands,  and  not  in  his,  for  ultimate  decision.  The 
case  on  which  I  went  was  not  called,  so  for  my  comfort  I 
have  to  go  again  to-morrow,  and  shall  be  thankful  if  I  then 
get  quit  of  it.  I  should  be  sorry  to  spend  any  great  por- 
tion of  my  life  in  such  an  atmosphere;  physically  and 
morally,  it  struck  me  as  any  thing  but  a  healthy  one. 

(129) 


130  LETTERS. 

Still  there  is  much  that  is  very  imposing  in  many  of  its 
forms  and  ceremonies,  though  blended,  I  thought,  with 
some  childish  mummery,  at  least  as  far  as  respected  the 
dress  of  the  learned  judge  presiding  in  the  Criminal 
Court;  the  wig  denoting  the  masculine,  and  the  drapery 
below  appearing  to  me  any  thing  but  manly.  Yet,  as  the 
cortege  drove  up  with  a  nourish  of  trumpets,  and  a  line  of 
javelin  men,  &c.,  &c.,  and  my  thoughts  travelled  to  the 
cells  of  the  jail  behind,  where,  on  these  occasions,  there 
must  often  be  human  beings  waiting  the  result  of  a  trial 
whose  issue  to  them  must  be  life  or  death,  there  was  a 
thrilling  feeling  of  solemnity  excited  by  the  scene  alto- 
gether. It  seemed  to  bring  before  me  an  inconceivably 
more  awful  and  solemn  tribunal,  when  the  last  trumpet 
shall  sound,  when  the  dead  shall  be  raised,  and  the  Great 
Assize,  whose  verdict  shall  be  for  Eternity,  must  be  held 
on  the  countless  myriads  who  have  existed  through  all  the 
successive  ages  of  time. 


TO     MRS.     SALMON. 

10  mo,  8,  1848. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

THE  same  kindness  that  induced  thee  to  take  us 
in,  and  to  make  so  much  of  us  during  our  pleasant  Hopton 
sojourn,  will,  I  am  sure,  impart  some  little  interest  to  a 
few  lines  reporting  our  safe  return  home,  and  our  partial 
reinstatement  in  our  wonted  domicile;  I  call  it  partial, 


TO     MRS.     SALMON.  131 

inasmuch  as  one  can  hardly,  all  at  once,  fancy  one's  self 
really  and  veritably  at  home.  I  still  seem  to  myself,  in 
thought,  feeling,  and  spirit,  more  than  half  at  Hopton;  as 
is  very  natural,  for  I  thoroughly  enjoyed  my  saunters  and 
strolls  there  and  thereabout,  and  can  find  or  think  of  no 
walk  half  so  pleasant  as  your  cliffs,  and  Gorlestone  pier. 
I  miss  too,  more  than  a  little^your  agreeable  family  circle. 
Theo's  lively  chit-chat,  Jane's  comic  comments,  the  smile 
of  the  younger  girls,  Frank's  novel  illustrations  of  Natural 
History,  and  the  evening  reports  of  Willy,  scant  as  they 
were,  of  what  chanced  to  be  going  on  at  Yarmouth.  On 
the  whole,  my  dear  friend,  I  quite  think  our  coming  to  you 
as  we  did  was  a  right  thing ;  and  I  am  very  sure  it  was  a 
pleasant  one,  as  it  gave  me  an  opportunity  of  seeing  you 
all  together  once  again,  and  renewing  my  acquaintance 
with  some  of  the  young  folks  respecting  whom  my  memory 
stood  in  some  need  of  being  brushed  up  a  little.  We  got 
outside  at  Lowestoft,  and  kept  there  till  we  reached  Yox- 
ford,  when  finding  the  inside  entirely  empty,  I  was  not 
sorry  once  more  to  turn  in,  and  found  the  change  of  rest 
to  my  back  very  agreeable,  though  the  heat  of  the  day 
rendered  the  loss  of  the  fresher  air  at  the  top  of  the  coach 
a  very  sensible  privation.  We  arrived  about  four  o'clock, 
and,  after  a  reviving  ablution,  I  felt  none  the  worse  for 
my  journey,  and  decidedly  the  better  for  the  few  days'  turn 
out.  Libby  Jones  and  E.  F.  Gr.  dropt  in  about  five  and 
took  tea  with  us  :  she  left  us  soon  after,  but  Edward  stayed 
till  between  seven  and  eight,  and  then  started  for  a  moon- 
light walk  to  Boulge. 


TO  JANE  B . 

2  mo,  15,  1847. 
DEAR  JANE, 

I  AM  too  late  to  send  thee  a  Valentine ;  but  we 
are  both  old  enough  to  have  done  "wi*  sic  frivolities/ '  as 
Grizel  Oldbuck  said  —  so  that  matters  little.  I  send  thee 
a  copy  of  my  little  tribute  to  the  memory  of  John  Joseph 
Gurney.  It's  a  small  matter;  but  I  have  taken  no  small 
pains  to  make  it  as  worthy  of  its  subject  as  my  scant  lei- 
sure and  declining  ability  would  permit.  In  fact,  I  have 
bestowed  more  pains  on  this  sheet  and  a  half,  than  on 
a  volume  in  my  better  days  —  a  sad  proof  how  near  I  draw 
to  my  dotage.  But  I  found  this  poor  tiny  effort  was  ex- 
pected of  me,  both  by  those  within  and  those  without  our 
pale ;  so  I  resolved  not  to  shirk  it,  little  as  I  felt  equal  to 
doing  justice  to  such  a  theme.  I  have  a  notion  it  will  be 
more  kindly  taken  (as  a  general  result)  out  than  in;  for 
some  of  our  good  Friends,  who  have  no  hearty  liking  to 
poetry  or  poets,  will  liken  me  to  him  of  old,  who  put  forth 
an  unbidden  —  ergo,  an  unhallowed  hand  on  the  ark  of  old. 
From  thee,  dear  Jane,  I  hope  for  a  more  charitable  ver- 
dict :  but  I  look  for  it  with  some  anxiety,  as  thou  hast 
much  of  the  better  part  of  poetry  and  Quakerism  too  in 
thee,  and  none  can  judge  better  of  any  attempt  to  combine 
the  two  without  wrong  to  either. 

Thine  affectionately, 

B.  B. 

(132) 


TO  THE  REV.  G.  CRABBE. 


9  mo,  1,  1845. 

MANY  years  ago  I  wrote  some  verses  for  a  Child's 
Annual,  to  accompany  a  print  of  Doddridge's  mother 
teaching  him  Bible  History  from  the  Dutch  tiles  round 
their  fire-place.  I  had  clean  forgotten  both  the  print  and 
my  verses ;  but  some  one  has  sent  me  a  child's  penny  cot- 
ton handkerchief,  on  which  I  find  a  transcript  of  that  iden- 
tical print,  and  four  of  my  stanzas  printed  under  it.  This 
handkerchief  celebrity  tickles  me  somewhat.  Talk  of 
fame !  is  not  this  a  fame  which  comes  home,  not  only  to 
" men's  business  and  bosoms"  but  to  children's  noses,  into 
the  bargain !  Tom  Churchyard  calls  it  an  indignity,  an 
insult,  looks  scorny*  at  it;  and  says  he  would  cuff  any 
urchin  whom  he  caught  blowing  his  nose  on  one  of  his 
sketches !  All  this  arises  from  his  not  knowing  the  com- 
plicated nature  and  texture  of  all  worldly  fame.  'T  is  like 
the  image  the  Babylonish  king  dreamt  of  with  its  golden 
head,  baser  metal  lower  down,  and  miry  clay  for  the  feet. 
It  will  not  do  to  be  fastidious ;  you  must  take  the  idol  as 
it  is ;  its  gold  sconce,  if  you  can  get  it ;  if  not,  take  the  clay 
feet,  or  one  toe  of  another  foot,  and  be  thankful,  and  make 

*  A  Suffolkcism. 
12  (133; 


134  LETTERS. 

what  you  can  of  it.  I  write  verse  to  be  read  !  it  is  a  mat- 
ter of  comparative  indifference  to  me  whether  I  am  read 
from  a  fine-bound  book,  on  a  drawing-room  table,  or  spelt 
over  from  a  penny  rag  of  a  kerchief  by  the  child  of  a 
peasant  or  a  weaver.  So,  honour  to  the  cotton  printer, 
say  I,  whoever  he  be;  that  bit  of  rag  is  my  patent  as  a 
household  poet. 


9  mo,  1,  1845. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

HERE  goes  for  my  second  letter  to  thee  this 
blessed  day.  If  that  a'nt  being  a  leUer-ary  character  I 
should  like  to  know  what  is.  Some  folks  make  a  great 
fuss  about  writing  letters;  they  pretend  to  say  they  can't 
write  a  letter;  they  never  know  what  to  say;  yet  they 
can  talk)  an  hour  by  the  clock !  as  if  there  were  any  more 
difficulty  in  talking  on  paper  than  in  a  noisier  lingo.  I 
never  could  understand  the  difference.  Not  that  I  should 
prefer  epistolizing  with  a  friend  to  having  him  tete-a-tete ; 
but  no  one  can  carry  his  friends  about  with  him;  and 
when  you  are  two  miles  apart  you  can  no  more  hope  to 
make  a  friend  hear  you,  than  if  you  were  twenty  or  two 
hundred.  Then  talking  on  paper  seems  to  me  just  as  na- 
tural and  easy  as  talking  with  your  tongue;  and  so  it 
would  be  to  every  one  else,  if  they  did  not  think  it  neces- 
sary to  write  fine  letters,  and  say  something  smart  or 
striking.  This  lies  at  the  bottom  of  it.  A  man  cares 
little,  by  comparison,  what  he  blurts  out,  viva  voce,  he 


TO     THE     REV.     G.     CRABBE.  135 

thinks  he  may  say  a  silly  thing  with  impunity,  it  can't 
stand  on  record  against  him;  but  when  he  gets  a  pen  in 
his  hand,  he  fancies,  forsooth,  he  has  a  character  to  win, 
or  to  keep,  for  being  eloquent,  witty,  or  profound;  the 
natural  result  is,  he  writes  a  stupid,  unnatural  letter;  then 
says  he  hates  letter-writing,  and  wonders  how  any  body 
can  like  it.  Women,  who  act  more  on  impulse  than  we 
do,  and  make  fewer  metaphysical  distinctions,  and  are 
less  conceited,  though  they  may  have  a  pretty  sprinkling 
of  vanity,  beat  us  out  and  out  at  letter-writing.  A  letter 
with  a  woman,  if  she  be  good  for  any  thing,  is  an  affair  of 
the  heart  rather  than  the  head,  so  they  put  more  heart  into 
their  letters. 


9  mo,  5,  1845. 

I  AM  inclined  to  think  I  did  not  go  far  enough 
in  my  position  that  it  is  as  easy  to  write  as  to  talk.  I 
have  a  great  notion  it  is  much  easier,  at  least  I  find  I  can 
always  give  utterance  to  my  own  thoughts  and  feelings 
with  more  readiness,  ease,  and  fluency,  on  paper  than 
orally  —  and  I  cannot  conceive  why  others  should  not.  In 
company,  conversation  may  be  going  on  all  round  you, 
and  your  attention  is  apt  to  be  divided  and  distracted  — 
even  in  a  tete-a-tete  you  must  have  two  duties  to  perform, 
that  of  listener,  as  well  as  speaker,  and  in  your  desire  not 
to  engross  more  than  your  share  of  the  talk,  you  are  not 
unlikely  to  get  less.  In  viva  voce  converse  too,  how  often 


136  LETTERS. 

it  happens  that  you  cannot  think  of  the  very  thing  you 
most  wanted  to  say.  Many  a  time,  after  a  long  and  moody 
discussion  of  a  topic  with  a  friend  about  a  subject  on 
which  we  took  opposite  views,  I  have  called  to  mind, 
when  too  late  to  be  of  any  use  to  me,  some  pithy  argu- 
ment which  would  have  blown  all  his  to  atoms,  and 
which  I  should  have  been  almost  sure  to  have  had  at  my 
fingers'  ends  had  I  been  quietly  arguing  the  matter  on 
paper  in  my  own  study. 


5  mo,  14,  1846. 

I  RAN  down  on  the  Sabbath  to  thy  father's 
old  borough,  over  those  glorious  heaths,  now  decked  in 
gorgeous  golden  livery,  and  rich  in  perfume  as  any  pinery. 
I  gulped  down  all  the  sea  air  I  could  in  a  long  stroll  on 
the  beach,  walking  twice  over  from  Slaughden  quay  to 
Vernon's,  between  the  time  of  leaving  a  conventicle  I 
went  to  and  dinner;  besides  one  stroll  on  the  terrace; 
and  came  back  all  the  better,  bodily  to  a  certainty,  and  I 
hope  none  the  worse,  spiritually.  I  don't  think  I  derived 
much  edification  from  the  service  at  the  chapel,  for  the 
usual  minister,  a  very  decent  sort  of  body,  whom  I  had 
heard  before,  and  went  there  partly  to  hear  again,  was  out, 
and  his  place  was  supplied  by  an  honest,  well-meaning 
Wesleyan,  an  out-and-out  teetotaller,  who  lugged  in  some 
queer  statistics  about  alcohol  and  its  ill  effects,  which  I 
thought  a  little  out  of  place.  But  I  dare  say  the  good 


TO     THE     REV.     G.     CRABBE.  137 

man  thought  it  his  duty.  One  item  in  his  long  prayer, 
before  the  sermon,  was  novel  to  me;  it  had  an  especial 
clause  in  it,  "for  all  inmates  of  madhouses,  and  Lunatic 
Asylums  !"  To  the  best  of  my  recollection  I  never  before 
heard  these  poor  unfortunates  especially  prayed  for,  in 
any  Christian  congregation,  whether  of  the  Establish- 
ment or  of  any  other  sect.  You  have,  to  be  sure,  a  saving 
clause  in  one  of  yours,  where  you  pray,  if  I  remember 
aright,  for  "all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,"  which  of 
course  must  include  lunatics;  but  the  express  reference 
was  new  to  me ;  and  I  felt  no  disposition  to  quarrel  with 
it;  so  if  the  good  man  put  somewhat  into  his  sermon  I 
could  have  dispensed  with,  he  brought  also  somewhat 
into  his  prayer  that  partly  made  amends  for  it.  I  think  it 
possible  the  worthy  Wesleyan  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  nine-tenths  of  maniacs  had  been  rendered  such  by 
strong  drink;  and  therefore,  as  a  teetotaller,  he  more 
especially  felt  bound  to  make  compassionate  mention  of 
them ;  if  so,  it  was  all  the  more  to  the  credit  of  his  Chris- 
tian charity. 


5  mo,  30,  1846. 
Seventh  day  evening. 

DEAR  C., 

IF  to-morrow  be   as   fine   as   to-day  has   been,  I 
may  be   tempted  to  stroll   over  to  thine  to  dinner,  assum- 
ing thy  dinner  hour  to  be  five  o'clock      I  think  by  start- 
12* 


138  LETTERS. 

ing  at  three,  or  perhaps  two,  I  may  perform  that  feat  of 
pedestrianism  in  the  two,  or  at  most  three,  hours.  Do  not 
exult  over  me  on  thy  more  Herculean  powers  of  bone, 
sinew,  or  muscle !  recollect, 


"  My  eyes,  my  feet,  begin  to  fail, 

My  pace  would  scarce  outstrip  the  snail." 


Nor  does  it  greatly,  when  I  walk  alone.  For  every  stile 
I  come  to  I  am  sure  to  find,  or  fancy,  my  nose  is  hungry, 
as  well  as  my  feet  weary,  and  I  can  feed  the  one  and  rest 
the  other  best  by  sitting  on  the  top  of  said  stile.  Once 
seated,  I  am  often  in  no  hurry  to  rise  again  —  especially  if 
I  chance  to  have  a  book  in  my  pocket.  So  that  I  am  not 
sure  that  an  hour,  or  even  one  and  a  half,  is  an  unreason- 
able allowance  to  a  mile,  but  with  a  friend  I  can  occasion- 
ally go  beyond  this. 

Do  not  however  be  too  sure  that  I  shall  be  as  resolute 
to-morrow  as  I  feel  inclined  to  be  this  evening.  From  the 
plotting  of  such  an  effort  to  its  performance  is  a  wide  step, 
wider  than  I  may  fancy  myself  equal  on  the  morrow  to 
accomplish :  but  this  may  serve  to  notify  that  the  thing 
was  in  my  heart  to  be  done ;  and  charitably  give  me  credit 
for  the  goodness  of  my  intention,  rather  than  wrathfully 
vituperate  me  for  failing  therein.  Old  Johnson  once  said 
of  some  friend  of  his  — "  I  am  not  sure,  sir,  that  he  has 
seen  the  inside  of  a  church  these  seven  years ;  but  he  never 
passes  one,  or  goes  through  a  churchyard,  without  taking 
off  his  hat;  and  that  shows  good  principles."  In  like 
manner,  though  I  rarely  walk  to  Bredfield,  I  often  think 
of  it,  and  wish  myself  there,  and  half  resolve  on  walking 
there  —  all  which  shows  my  friendly  regard  for  the  place, 


TO     THE     REV.     G.     CRABBE.  139 

and  my  love  for  those  who  dwell  there.     Make  what  thou 
canst  of  this. 

Thine  ever, 


8  mo,  20,  1846. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

I  WAS  going  to  begin  "  My  dear  old  Friend,"  for 
I  have  sometimes  hard  work  to  convince  myself  that  our 
acquaintance  is  only  of  few  years'  standing.  There  are 
natures  so  intrenched  in  all  sorts  of  artificial  outworks, 
each  of  which  must  be  deliberately  carried  by  siege  ere 
you  can  get  at  what  there  is  of  nature  in  them,  that  you 
had  need  know  them,  in  conventional  phraseology,  half  or 
a  quarter  of  a  life,  ere  you  know  aught  about  them.  There 
are  others  whom,  by  a  sort  of  instinctive  free-masonry, 
you  seem  old  friends  with  at  once.  The  value  of  the 
acquisition  depends  not  always  on  the  time  and  labour  it 
costs  to  make  it  —  it  is  very  often  clean  the  contrary ;  for 
it  by  no  means  unfrequently  turns  out,  that  what  has  cost 
you  much  time  and  pains  to  get  at  is  worth  little  when 
obtained.  I  speak  not  of  principles  or  truths,  which  you 
must  find  out  for  yourself,  and  this  must  often  be  a  slow 
process ;  but  I  am  talking  of  those  who  profess  them,  and 
these,  methinks,  ought  to  be  more  promptly  discernible 
and  discoverable.  Man  would  not  be  such  a  riddle  to 
man,  did  not  too  many  of  us  wear  masks,  and  intrench 
ourselves  in  all  sorts  of  conventionalities  and  formalities. 


140  LETTERS. 

I  do  not  think  there  is  much  of  these  in  either  of  us ;  and 
that,  I  take  it,  is  the  reason  why  we  have  got  all  the  more 
readily  at  each  other.  Enough,  however,  of  this  long 
introduction,  which  I  have  blundered  into  without  design 
or  malice  aforethought. 

I  am  glad  to  hear  of  thy  having  had  so  pleasant  a  visit  at 
Beccles —  we  must  talk  it  over  one  of  these  days.  The 
days  are  perceptibly  shortening,  and  longer  evenings  will 
drive  us  to  have  fires  —  we  will  get  over  one  for  a  Beccles 
palaver.  I  am  well  pleased,  too,  thou  hast  found  that 
" Sun-dew/'  as  thy  heart  was  set  upon  it.  "All  have  their 
hobbies/'  Flowers,  wild  or  cultivated,  do  not  chance  to 
be  mine ;  but  there  is  no  reason  why  they  should  not  be 
thine.  So  I  repeat  that  I  am  well  pleased  thou  shouldst 
have  found  thy  coy  pet.  I  saw  naught  of  the  Regatta; 
but  I  saw  as  much  of  it  as  I  have  seen  of  any  one  of  its 
precursors,  for  I  never  yet  went  over  the  threshold  on  any 
one  of  our  Regatta  days ;  so,  as  none  of  the  boats  or  yachts 
will  sail  by  our  bank  windows,*  I  have  never  yet  seen  one 
of  them  —  I  mean  on  these  days  of  their  especial  display. 

As  I  have  but  imperfect  sympathies  with  thee  on  wild- 
flowers,  I  cannot  with  any  decent  show  of  reason  challenge 
thy  cordial  ones  with  me  about  pets  of  my  own.  But 
I  have  within  a  fortnight  or  so  made  a  curious  discovery, 
which  has  interested  me  a  good  deal.  My  father  was  a 
Carlisle  body,  but  left  the  "north  countrie"  ere  I  was  born; 
—  my  two  elder  sisters  were  born  at  Carlisle,  but  left  it 
when  mere  children;  so  their  recollections  never  let  me 
into  the  light  of  my  progenitors.  My  father  died  ere  I 
was  seven  years  old,  having  married  a  second  wife  near 
London,  and  I  grew  up  as  part  of  her  family  rather  than 

*  Which  are  some  way  inland. 


TO    THE     REV.     G.     CRABBE.  141 

my  own.  I  have  heard  my  elder  sister  say  I  was  named 
after  my  grandfather,  who  was  a  manufacturer,  I  suspect 
on  a  small  scale,  at  Carlisle.  He  carried  a  head  on  his 
shoulders,  though,  that  manufacturing  body;  for  he  in- 
vented a  curious  piece  of  machinery,  long  since  forgotten, 
but  a  sort  of  wonder  in  its  day;  for  it  won  him  a  gold 
medal,  from  some  society  in  London.  This  is  about  all  I 
ever  knew  of  him  until  within  about  a  fortnight,  when  I  had 
a  letter  from  a  far-away  cousin  of  mine  at  Carlisle,  to  con 
gratulate  me  on  my  pension;  and  to  ask  in  return  my 
condolence  on  having  lost  a  brother.  The  writer  then 
adds  —  "Our  burial-place  is  at  St.  Cuthbert's  churchyard, 
in  this  city  (Carlisle),  where  also  are  interred  your  grand- 
father and  grandmother,  but  the  stone  is  much  fallen  into 
decay."  I  wrote  directly  to  learn  further  particulars,  and 
have  got  the  following  copy  of  the  inscription  on  the 
stone : 

ERECTED 

IN   MEMORY   OP   BERNARD  BARTON; 

WHO   DIED   JAN.    6TH,   1773; 

AGED   45   YEARS. 

ALSO 
OF   MARY,    HIS   WIFE;   WHO   DIED 

MAY  20TH,  1786;  AGED  54  YEARS. 

ALSO 
OF   FIVE   OF   THEIR   CHILDREN; 

VIZ. 
GEORGE,   WILLIAM,   ABRAHAM, 

HENRY,    AND    BERNARD; 
,,-'•    -  WHO   DIED   IN   THEIR  INFANCY. 


142  LETTERS. 

Here 's  a  pretty  chapter  of  one's  family  history  to  have 
been  cut  on  stone  some  scores  of  years  agone,  and  only 
now  to  have  dawned  on  me.  How  that  old  mouldering 
tumble-down  gravestone  has  peopled  the  past  for  me,  and 
introduced  me  in  fancy  to  a  set  of  people  I  had  not  before 
dreamt  of — "bone  of  my  bone,  and  flesh  of  my  flesh." 
The  first  thought  which  struck  me  on  reading  it  was  the 
comparative  youthfulness  of  my  grandparents.  One  na- 
turally fancies  one's  grandfather  and  grandmother  to  have 
been  old  folk.  Why,  I  am  already  near  a  score  years 
older  than  my  venerable  namesake;  and  his  widow,  after 
surviving  him  thirteen  years,  was  considerably  my  junior. 
My  father,  I  think,  died  under  forty,  so  I  have  no  claim 
to  longevity  by  right  of  descent.  Then  only  to  think  of 
those  five  uncles  of  mine,  or  uncle-ets,  rather,  for  they 
grew  not  up  to  mature  uncle-hood.  Had  they  all  lived, 
wedded,  and  had  families,  what  a  Bartonian  host  we 
should  or  might  have  been !  I  have,  as  thou  wilt  con- 
clude, sent  to  beg  the  old  stone  may  be  cleaned  and  re- 
novated, and  set  upright  again ;  for  it  is  vastly  out  of  the 
perpendicular;  and  but  for  my  having  thus  accidentally 
heard  of  it,  would  probably  have  fallen  down,  and  been 
carried  off  to  serve  as  a  door-step,  or  to  assist  in  the  pave- 
ment of  some  pig-stye,  mayhap. 

"  To  such  vile  uses  may  we  come  at  last" 

My  brother,  to  whom  I  wrote  directly  I  heard  of  this 
humble  memorial,  feels  as  much  interested  as  I  do  about  it, 
and  has  given  me  carte  blanche  for  the  defraying  any  costs 
or  charges  such  renovation  and  re-erection  may  involve. 
If  the  old  stone  will  stand  it,  I  mean  to  have  cut  on  the 
reverse  side  — 


TO    THE    REV.     G.     CRABBE.  143 

REPAIRED   AND   ERECTED 

1846, 

BY   BERNARD   AND   JOHN   BARTON, 

GRANDSONS   OF   THE   FIRST-NAMED 

DECEASED. 

So  much  for  my  grand-dad  and  grandaine ;  and  now,  peace 
to  their  memories.  But  is  it  not  curious  that  the  know- 
ledge of  such  a  relic  should  have  dawned  on  one  seventy- 
three  years  after  its  erection,  all  along  of  Sir  Robert's 
giving  me  a  pension? 

We  purpose  having  a  cold  set-out  —  some  folks  call  the 
thing  a  collation,  others,  a  collection,  throughout  all  the 
middle  portion  of  this  day  week  —  in  the  discussion  of 
which  I  hope  thyself,  and  any,  or  all,  thy  family  will  assist, 
at  whatever  hour  best  suits  you  and  the  doings  of  the 
day.*  Tell  Master  George,  as  a  younger  pillar  of  the 
Church,  I  rely  on  his  presence,  and  let  us  know  at  what 
time  we  may  hope  for  the  pleasure  of  your  company. 
And  now,  having  bothered  and  bored  thee  enough  in 
all  conscience,  I  take  my  leave. 

Thine  affectionately, 

B.  B. 


12  mo,  18,  1847. 

DEAR  C., 

THOU  hast  no  notion  what  an  effort  it  is  to  me 
to  get  out,  or  thou  wouldst  marvel  not  at  my  staying  at 

*  The  consecrating  a  new  church  at  Woodbridge. 


144  LETTERS. 

home.  Did  not  Solomon  say  there  is  a  time  for  going  out, 
and  a  time  for  staying  at  home.  If  he  did  not,  he  ought  to 
have  said  it ;  and  his  omission  negatives  not  the  fact. 

I  yet  hope  to  see  Bredfield  one  day  or  the  other ;  but  the 
when  and  the  how  are  hid  from  me.  My  walking  facul- 
ties are  not  what  they  used  to  be ;  and  flying  is  too  costly 
to  have  recourse  to.  Besides,  my  good  old  friend,  I  can't 
make  out  that  it  is  any  farther  from  Bredfield  to  Wood- 
bridge  than  it  is  from  here  to  thine ;  yet  I  think  I  perform 
that  pious  pilgrimage  three  times  to  thy  one.  Think  of 
that,  and  make  allowance  for  my  old  age  and  growing 
infirmities.  Thine,  with  love  to  all  the  younkers,  hes 
and  shes. 

Ever  truly, 

Bernardus. 


MY  DEAR  C., 

I  THINK  Lucy  had  a  note  from  Caroline  yesterday 
brought  by  your  Mercury,  to  which  she  made  her  re- 
sponse ;  but  she  did  not  know  when  she  made  it  that  the 
said  Mercury  was  also  the  bearer  of  more  substantial 
proofs  of  your  friendly  memory,  until  I  reported  having 
seen  the  unwonted  spectacle  of  a  hare,  and  a  brace  of 
birds,  hanging  up  below.  Our  damsel,  it  seems,  brought 
the  note  up-stairs,  but  said  not  a  word  of  the  notable  post- 
script she  had  hung  up  in  our  tiny  larder.  On  her  mis- 
tress letting  out  at  her  for  the  omission,  and  telling  her 
she  had  been  the  cause  of  her  doing  a  very  rude  thing,  at 


TO     THE     REV.     G.     CRABBE.  145 

least  not  doing  a  civil  and  thankful  one,  by  not  acknow- 
ledging such  an  importation;  she  said,  I  thought  very 
adroitly,  that  she  concluded  they  were  in  the  letter.  The 
supposition  was  not  an  unnatural  one ;  at  any  rate,  it  will 
account  for  the  tardiness  of  our  acknowledgments,  which 
I  promised  Lucy  I  would  duly  make  this  evening. 

I  had  a  letter  the  other  day  from  a  first  cousin  of  mine, 
of  whom  I  had  not  heard  for  near  fifty  years,  and  whom  I 
fancied  to  have  been  dead.  She  is  about  my  own  age,  I 
fear  very  poor,  sickly,  and  infirm;  but  picks  up  a  living 
I  hardly  know  how,  though  I  doubt  a  scanty  one.  She 
sent  me  a  little  scrap  of  her  verse,  for  she,  too,  is  a  dabbler 
in  rhyme.  To  me  there  is  something  really  touching  in 
her  simple  and  brief  record  of  her  solitary  state,  and  I 
have  printed  a  few  copies  of  it,  giving  it  a  title  of  my  own 
making,  as  I  received  it  without  any;  and  I  hope  by 
sending  a  copy  here  and  there  among  some  of  our  kinsfolk 
who  are  better  off  than  either  she  or  myself,  some  trifling 
benefit  may  accrue  to  her. 

There  is,  to  my  fancy,  a  tone  of  genuine  pathos  in  this 
little  ditty  which  more  than  compensates  for  any  defect  in 
poetic  beauty,  and  though  in  her  verse  she  not  unnaturally 
dwells  on  the  darker  side,  the  letter  which  came  with  it 
has  no  murmuring  or  repining  whatever ;  on  the  contrary, 
she  expresses  her  gratitude  at  being  able  to  earn  her  own 
living  by  her  own  exertions. 

I  have  written  to  my  poor  cousin,  whom  I  well  remem- 
ber nearly  fifty  years  ago,  as  kind  and  encouraging  a  letter 
as  I  could  indite,  and  I  hope  to  render  some  little  service, 
or  to  show  by  my  sympathy  that  I  am  more  proud  than 
ashamed  of  our  kinship. 

Thine  truly, 

B.  B. 
13 


146  LETTERS. 


MANY  a  time  when  I  have  been  taking  a  solitary 
stroll  by  the  sea-side,  the  sight  of  footsteps  left  when 
no  one  was  in  sight  has  set  me  thinking  whose  they 
might  be. 


LETTEES 


SOUTHEY,  C.  LAMB,  &c. 


BERNARD  BARTON. 


(147) 


FROM  ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

Kesunck,  3rd  August,  1814. 
MY  DEAR  SlR, 

I  SHOULD  have  answered  your  letter  imme- 
diately, if  I  had  not  been  engaged  with  visitors  when  it 
arrived.  In  the  course  of  my  life  I  have  more  than  once 
had  reason  to  be  thankful  for  having  done  things  which 
would  have  been  left  undone,  if  the  first  impulse  had  been 
suffered  to  pass  by  —  for,  second  thought  in  matters  of 
feeling  usually  brings  with  it  hesitation  and  demurral  and 
doubt,  from  which  the  whole  brood  of  sins  of  omission  are 
derived.  Your  letter  affected  me.  It  seems  to  come  from 
a  good  heart  and  a  wounded  one,  and  therefore  I  will  ven- 
ture to  say  what  is  upon  my  mind  in  spite  of  those  obvious 

considerations  which  might  prevent  me. 

****** 

I  shall  be  very  glad  to  receive  your  little  volume.  If  it 
be  left  either  at  Messrs.  Longman's  in  Paternoster  Row, 
or  at  Mr  Murray's  in  Albemarle  Street,  it  will  find  its 
way  to  me  in  a  parcel. 

From  what  I  have  heard,  I  believe  that  the  magazine 
has  given  you  a  portrait  of  me  as  little  accurate  as  its  in- 
formation about  my  poem.  I  am  a  man  of  forty,  younger 
in  appearance  and  in  habits,  older  in  my  feelings  and 
frame  of  mind.  I  have  been  married  nearly  nineteen  years, 
13  *  (149) 


150  LETTERS. 

and  have  had  seven  children  —  two  of  whom  (one  being 
my  first-born)  are  in  a  better  world.  The  eldest  now 
living  is  in  her  eleventh  year.  There  is  only  one  boy 
among  them;  he  is  nearly  eight,  and  has  me  for  his 
schoolmaster  and  play-father,  characters  which  we  find  it 
very  easy  to  combine.  You  call  me  a  fortunate  being, 
and  I  am  so,  because  I  possess  the  will  as  well  as  the 
power  of  employing  myself  for  the  support  of  my  family, 
and  value  riches  exactly  at  what  they  are  worth.  I  have 
store  of  books,  and  pass  my  life  among  them,  finding  no 
enjoyment  equal  to  that  of  accumulating  knowledge.  In 
worldly  affairs  the  world  must  consider  me  as  unfortunate, 
for  I  have  been  deprived  of  a  good  property,  which,  by 
the  common  laws  of  inheritance,  should  have  been  mine; 
and  this  through  no  fault,  error,  or  action  of  my  own. 
But  my  wishes  are  bounded  by  my  wants,  and  I  have 
nothing  to  desire  but  a  continuance  of  the  blessings  which 
I  enjoy. 

Enough  of  this.     Believe  me,  with   the  best  wishes  for 
your  welfare, 

Sincerely  yours, 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


19th  December,  1814.     Keswick. 
MY  DEAR  SlR, 

You   will  wonder  at   not    having    received  my 
thanks  for  your  Metrical  Effusions ;  but  you  will  acquit  me 


FROM  ROBERT  SOUTHEY.        151 

of  all  incivility  when  you  hear  that  the  book  did  not  reach 
me  till  this  morning,  and  that  I  have  now  laid  it  down 
after  a  full  perusal.  It  was  overlooked  at  Murray's,  for  I 
have  received  several  parcels  from  him  in  the  course  of 
the  last  two  months ;  and  when  upon  the  receipt  of  yours 
I  wrote  to  inquire  for  it,  it  was  packed  up  in  company  with 
heavier  matter,  and  travelled  down  by  the  slowest  of  all 
carriers. 

I  have  read  your  poems  with  much  pleasure;  those 
with  most  which  speak  most  of  your  own  feelings.  Have 
I  not  seen  some  of  them  in  the  Monthly  Magazine  ? 

Wordsworth's  residence  and  mine  are  fifteen  miles 
asunder ;  a  sufficient  distance  to  preclude  any  frequent 
interchange  of  visits.  I  have  known  him  nearly  twenty 
years,  and,  for  about  half  that  time,  intimately.  The 
strength  and  the  character  of  his  mind  you  see  in  the 
"Excursion,"  and  his  life  does  not  belie  his  writings;  for 
in  every  relation  of  life,  and  every  point  of  view,  he  is  a 
truly  exemplary  and  admirable  man.  In  conversation  he 
is  powerful  beyond  any  of  his  contemporaries;  and  as  a 
poet,  I  speak  not  from  the  partiality  of  friendship,  nor 
because  we  have  been  so  absurdly  held  up  as  both  writing 
upon  one  concerted  system  of  poetry,  but  with  the  most 
deliberate  exercise  of  impartial  judgment  whereof  I  am 
capable,  when  I  declare  my  full  conviction  that  posterity 
will  rank  him  with  Milton. 

You  wish  the  "Metrical  Tales"  were  republished;  they 
are  at  this  time  in  the  press,  incorporated  with  my  other 
minor  poems  in  three  volumes.  Nos  hcec  novimus  esse 
nihil  may  serve  as  a  motto  for  them  all. 

Do  not  suffer  my  projected  Quaker  poem  to  interfere 
with  your  intentions  respecting  William  Penn.  There  is 
not  the  slightest  reason  why  it  should.  Of  all  great  repu- 


152  LETTERS. 

tations,  Penn's  is  that  which  has  been  most  the  effect  of 
accident.  The  great  action  of  his  life  was  his  turning  Qua- 
ker :  the  conspicuous  one,  his  behaviour  upon  his  trial.  In 
all  that  regards  Pennsylvania,  he  has  no  other  merit  than 
that  of  having  followed  the  principles  of  the  religious  com- 
munity to  which  he  belonged,  when  his  property  happened 
to  be  vested  in  colonial  speculations.  The  true  champion 
for  religious  liberty  in  America  was  Roger  Williams,  the 
first  consistent  advocate  for  it  in  that  country,  and  perhaps 
in  any  one.  —I  hold  his  memory  in  veneration.  But  because 
I  value  religious  liberty,  I  differ  from  you  entirely  concern- 
ing the  Catholic  question,  and  never  would  intrust  any  sect 
with  political  power  whose  doctrines  are  inherently  and 
necessarily  intolerant. 

Believe  me, 

Yours  with  sincere  respect, 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


Keswick,  21st  January,  1820. 

DEAR  SIR, 

You  propose  a  question  to  me  which  I  can  no 
more  answer  with  any  grounds  for  an  opinion  than  if  you 
were  to  ask  me  whether  a  lottery  ticket  should  be  drawn  a 
blank  or  a  prize;  or  if  a  ship  should  make  a  prosperous 
voyage  to  the  East  Indies.  If  I  recollect  rightly,  poor 
Scott,  of  Amwell,  was  disturbed  in  his  last  illness  by  some 
hard-hearted  and  sour-blooded  bigots  who  wanted  him  to 
repent  of  his  poetry  as  a  sin.  The  Quakers  are  much 


FROM  ROBERT  SOUTHEY.        153 

altered  since  that  time.  I  know  one,  a  man  deservedly 
respected  by  all  who  know  him,  (Charles  Lloyd  the  elder, 
of  Birmingham,)  who  has  amused  his  old  age  by  trans- 
lating Horace  and  Homer;  and  he  is  looked  up  to  in  the 
Society,  and  would  not  have  printed  the  translations  if  he 
had  thought  it  likely  to  give  offence. 

Judging,  however,  from  the  spirit  of  the  age  as  affecting 
your  Society,  like  everything  else,  I  should  think  they 
would  be  gratified  by  the  appearance  of  a  poet  among  them 
who  confined  himself  within  the  limits  of  their  general 
principles.  They  have  been  reproached  with  being  the 
most  illiterate  sect  that  has  ever  arisen  in  the  Christian 
world,  and  they  ought  to  be  thankful  to  any  of  their  mem- 
bers who  should  assist  in  vindicating  them  from  that  op- 
probrium. There  is  nothing  in  their  principles  which 
should  prevent  them  from  giving  you  their  sanction;  and 
I  will  even  hope  there  are  not  many  persons  who  will  im- 
pute it  to  you  as  a  sin  if  you  should  call  some  of  the  months 
by  their  heathen  names.*  I  know  of  no  other  offence  that 
you  are  in  danger  of  committing.  They  will  not  like 
virtuous  feelings  and  religious  principles  the  worse  for 
being  conveyed  in  good  verse.  If  poetry  in  itself  were 
unlawful,  the  Bible  must  be  a  prohibited  book. 

*  One  in  the  "  British  Friend,"  did  impute  this  as  a  sin,  twenty- 
five  years  after  Southey  thus  wrote. 


154  LETTERS. 


Kesurick,  25f&  Oct.,  1820. 
MY  DEAR  SlR, 

I  MUST  be  very  unreasonable  were  I  to  feel  other- 
wise than  gratified  and  obliged  by  a  dedication*  from  one 
in  whose  poems  there  is  so  much  to  approve  and  admire. 
I  thank  you  for  this  mark  of  kindness,  and  assure  you  that 
it  is  taken  as  it  is  meant. 

It  has  accidentally  come  to  my  knowledge  that  a  brother 
of  yours  is  married  to  the  daughter  of  my  worthy  and  re- 
spected friend,  Mr.  Woodruffe  Smith.  When  you  have  an 
opportunity,  it  would  oblige  me  if  you  would  recall  me  to 
her  remembrance,  by  assuring  her  that  I  have  not  forgotten 
the  kindness  which  I  so  often  experienced  at  her  father's 
house. 

Perhaps  you  may  consider  it  an  interesting  piece  of 
literary  news  to  be  informed  that,  among  my  various  em- 
ployments, one  is  that  of  collecting  and  arranging  ma- 
terials for  "The  Life  of  George  Fox,  and  the  Rise  and 
Progress  of  the  Quakers."  You  know  enough  of  -my  writ- 
ings to  understand  that  the  consideration  of  whom  I  may 
please  or  displease  would  never  make  me  turn  aside  from 
what  I  believed  to  be  the  right  line.  I  shall  write  fairly 
and  freely,  in  the  spirit  of  Christian  charity.  My  personal 
feelings  are  those  of  respect  toward  the  Society,  (such  as  it 
has  been  since  its  first  effervescence  was  spent,)  and  of  good- 
will because  of  its  members  whom  I  have  known  and 
esteemed.  Its  history  I  shall  relate  with  scrupulous  fidelity, 
and  discuss  its  tenets  with  no  unfavourable  or  unfriendly 
bias,  neither  dissembling  my  own  opinion  when  it  accords, 

*  Of  the  "  Day  in  Autumn." 


FROM     ROBERT     SOU  THEY.  155 

nor  when  it  differs  from  them.  And  perhaps  I  may  expose 
myself  to  more  censure  from  others  on  account  of  agree- 
ment, than  from  them  because  of  the  difference.  But 
neither  the  one  result  nor  the  other  will,  in  the  slightest 
degree,  influence  me ;  my  object  being  to  compose  with  all 
diligence  and  all  possible  impartiality  an  important  portion 
not  of  ecclesiastical  history  alone,  but  of  the  history  of 
human  opinions. 

I  will  only  add,  that  in  this  work  I  shall  have  the  oppor- 
tunity which  I  wish  for,  of  bearing  my  testimony  to  the 
merit  of  your  poems. 

Believe  me,  my  dear  Sir, 
Yours  truly, 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


Keswick,  Wth  November,  1820. 

MY  DEAR  SIR, 

I  TRUST  you  will  have  imputed  my  silence  about 
your  "Day  in  Autumn "  to  the  true  cause  —  the  delay  to 
which  such  communications  are  liable  in  waiting  for  an 
opportunity  of  conveyance.  It  was  not  till  this  morning 
that  I  received  it  in  a  parcel,  dated  on  the  sixth  of  this 
month.  The  waggon  travels  slowly,  and  more  time  is  lost 
in  carrier's  warehouses,  when  a  parcel  has  to  change  con- 
veyances twice  or  thrice  on  the  road,  than  is  required  for 
the  journey.  I  now  thank  you  again  for  the  dedication 
and  the  poem.  It  is  a  very  pleasing  production,  in  a  fine 
strain  of  genuine  feeling. 


156  LETTERS. 

In  reply  to  your  questions  concerning  "The  Life  of 
George  Fox/'  the  plan  of  the  work  resembles  that  of  "The 
Life  of  Wesley,"  as  nearly  as  possible.  Very  little  progress 
has  been  made  in  the  composition,  but  a  good  deal  in  col- 
lecting materials  and  digesting  the  order  of  their  arrange- 
ment. The  first  chapters  will  contain  a  history  of  the 
religious,  or  irreligious  dissensions  in  England,  and  their 
consequences,  from  the  rise  of  the  Lollards  to  the  time 
when  George  Fox  went  forth.  This  will  be  such  an  his- 
torical sketch  as  that  view  of  our  ecclesiastical  history  in 
"The  Life  of  Wesley;"  which  is  the  most  elaborate  por- 
tion of  the  work.  The  last  chapter  will  probably  contain 
a  view  of  the  state  of  the  Society  at  the  time,  and  the 
modification  and  improvement  which  it  has  gradually  and 
almost  insensibly  received.  This  part,  whenever  it  is 
written,  and  all  those  parts  wherein  I  may  be  in  danger  of 
forming  erroneous  inferences  from  an  imperfect  knowledge 
of  the  subject,  I  shall  take  care  to  show  to  some  members 
of  the  Society  before  it  is  printed.  The  general  spirit  and 
tendency  of  the  book  will,  I  doubt  not,  be  thought  favour- 
able by  the  Quakers  as  well  as  to  them,  and  the  more  so  by 
the  judicious,  because  commendation  conies  with  tenfold 
weight  from  one  who  does  not  dissemble  his  own  difference 
of  opinion  upon  certain  main  points. 

Perhaps  in  the  course  of  the  work  I  may  avail  myself  of 
your  friendly  offer;    and  ask  you  some  questions  as  they 
occur,  and  transmit  certain  parts  for  your  inspection. 
Farewell,  my  dear  Sir,  and  believe  me, 
Yours  with  much  esteem, 

EGBERT  SOUTHEY. 


PROM  EGBERT  SOUTHEY.        157 


Keswick,  12th  Jan.,  1821. 

MY  DEAR  SIR, 

THOUGH  I  am  more  than  usually  busy  at  this 
time/  (otherwise  your  former  letter  would  not  have  been 
unnoticed  so  long,)  I  feel  myself  bound  to  assure  you 
without  delay,  that  the  paragraph  which  you  have  trans- 
mitted to  me  from  I  know  not  what  magazine,  has  sur- 
prised me  quite  as  much  as  it  can  have  done  you.  There 
is  not  the  slightest  foundation  for  it,  nor  can  I  guess  how 
such  a  notion  should  have  arisen.  So  far  is  it  from  being 
true,  that  offers  of  assistance  in  the  way  of  documents 
have  been  made  me  by  several  of  the  Society,  books  have 
been  sent  me  by  some,  and  I  have  been  referred  to 
others  for  any  information  or  aid  which  I  may  happen  to 
want,  and  they  be  able  to  afford.  Mrs.  Fry  offered  me 
access  to  some  manuscript  collections  in  the  possession  of 
some  of  her  friends,  and  Thomas  Wilkinson  (of  whom  you 
cannot  think  with  more  respect  than  I  do)  asked  me  the 
other  day  to  let  him  know  what  books  I  wanted,  and  he 
would  endeavour  to  borrow  them  for  me  with  good  hopes 
of  success. 

I  can  only  account  for  the  paragraph  by  supposing  the 
editor,  whoever  he  may  be,  may  have  heard  that  Longman 
had  not  been  able  to  obtain  for  my  use  the  first  edition  of 
Gr.  Fox's  Journal.  I  have  found  it  since  in  the  possession 
of  an  acquaintance  in  the  country. 

Your  poem  is  a  very  pleasing  one.  How  came  the  pre- 
judice against  verse  to  arise  among  the  Quakers,  when  so 
many  of  the  primitive  Quakers  wrote  verses  themselves? 
14 


158  LETTERS. 

miserably  bad  ones  they  were,  but  still  they  were  intended 
for  poetry. 

Farewell,  my  dear  Sir,  and  believe  me, 
Yours  with  sincere  respect, 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


[BERNARD  BARTON  TO  SOUTHEY.] 

Woodbridge,  2  mo,  18, 1821. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

THE  information  contained  in  thy  last,  respect- 
ing the  facilities  afforded  thee  in  the  prosecution  of  thy 
present  undertaking,  was,  on  every  account,  highly  agree- 
able to  me;  and  I  should  have  immediately  returned  my 
acknowledgments  to  thee  for  so  promptly  contradicting 
the  report  I  had  transmitted,  had  I  not,  besides  being  a 
good  deal  engaged  myself,  considered  thy  time  much  too 
valuable  to  be  lightly  intruded  upon.  After  saying  thus 
much,  thou  wilt,  I  hope,  give  me  credit  for  having  felt  some 
hesitation,  and  indeed  catechised  myself  pretty  closely, 
prior  to  again  addressing  thee  on  a  subject,  seldom  many 
days  out  of  my  thoughts. 

As  thy  proposed  "  Life  of  George  Fox,  and  History  of 
the  Rise  and  Progress  of  our  Society,"  is  more  talked  of, 
and  the  knowledge  of  thy  being  engaged  on  such  a  work 
becomes  more  widely  extended,  it  is  very  natural  that 
those  interested  in  the  subject  should  have  increased  op- 


TO     ROBERT     SOUTHEY.  159 

portunities  afforded  them  of  hearing  the  opinions  expressed 
by  others;  of  comparing  those  opinions  with  their  own; 
and  that  they  should,  as  a  necessary  consequence  of  this, 
feel  desirous  of  now  and  then  imparting  to  the  historian 
the  apprehensions,  as  well  as  hopes,  excited  by  his  under- 
taking. I  would  not,  believe  me,  put  either  thy  time  or 
patience  in  wanton  and  needless  requisition,  but  on  one 
topic  I  could  wish,  both  as  respects  our  feelings  and  our 
faith,  to  solicit  thy  serious,  candid,  and  patient  thought. 

A  belief  in  the  influences  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  though 
entertained  under  various  modifications,  is,  I  think,  no 
peculiar  tenet  of  ours ;  we  may  and  do  carry  the  principle 
further,  and  rely  on  the  perceptibility  of  its  guidance,  and 
internal  consciousness  of  its  teachings,  (if  I  may  so  express 
myself;)  we  may,  I  say,  carry  our  belief  on  these  matters 
beyond  that  of  some  of  our  fellow-Christians :  but  I  think 
most  who  profess  the  Christian  name,  with  the  exception 
perhaps  of  the  Socinians,  admit  the  principle  itself  in  the 
abstract;  and  consider  the  influences  of  the  Spirit  as  one 
of  the  highest  privileges  to  which  the  gospel  of  Christ  in- 
troduces those  who  humbly  receive  it.  Not  doubting  but 
it  is  so  regarded  by  thee,  I  cannot  suppress  the  solicitude 
I  feel,  that  in  the  discussion  of  a  tenet  so  important,  and 
which  our  peculiar  acceptation  of,  belief  in,  and  reliance 
upon,  renders  a  marked  feature  of  our  faith;  I  repeat, 
I  cannot  but  be  anxious  that  this  topic,  if  discussed  at 
all  by  thee,  should  be  touched  upon  with  that  humility  and 
reverence  befitting  one  who  himself  admits  the  existence 
of  such  a  Spirit,  who  believes  in  its  holy  influence,  but 
who  probably  differs  from  us  in  respect  to  that  influence 
being  perceptible,  and  who  may  even  look  upon  our  belief 
in  such  perceptibility  as  mysticism,  if  not  actual  delusion. 
Bear  with  me  on  this  subject,  my  valued  friend,  for, 


160  LETTERS. 

believe  me,  I  have  no  wish  to  dwell  longer  upon  it  than  is 
essential  to  my  purpose,  and  I  most  certainly  am  not  going 
now  to  enter  into  a  detailed  defence  of  our  views  of  it ;  but 
should  those  views  appear  to  thee  erroneous,  allow  me  to 
express  my  earnest  hope  that  thou  wilt  not,  in  attempting 
their  refutation,  at  once  endanger  the  foundation,  because 
thou  mayest  not  quite  approve  of  our  superstructure.  Do 
not  let  me,  I  entreat,  be  misunderstood.  I  have  no  fear  of 
thy  discussing  our  belief  in  a  tone  of  ridicule,  or  even  of 
levity;  of  thy  talking  of  our  professing  to  be  led  by  the 
Spirit,  in  the  light  and  trifling  manner  in  which  the 
fundamental  article  of  our  creed  has  been  railed  at  by 
scoffers,  burlesqued  by  dramatists,  and  jeered  at  by  the 
vain,  unthinking  ribaldry  of  the  lowest  vulgar,  with  whom 
the  taunt,  now  happily'  seldom  heard,  "  Friend,  doth  the 
Spirit  move  thee?" — has  before  now  passed  as  a  joke. 
On  these  points  I  can  have  no  fears;  nor  is  it  on  any  such 
ground  that  I  feel  the  solicitude  I  now  express.  But  it 
has  occurred  to  me,  that  with  a  view  to  counteract  the 
tendency  of  a  doctrine  which  may  appear  to  thee  as  open- 
ing a  door  to  fanaticism  and  enthusiasm,  thou  mayest  quite 
unintentionally  weaken  what,  I  am  fully  persuaded,  is 
viewed  by  thee  as  sacred;  and,  without  convincing  us 
that  we  believe  too  much,  mayest  promote  the  more  cold 
and  sceptical  views  of  those  who  believe  too  little.  I  cer- 
tainly am  not  going  to  be  so  dictatorial  as  to  tell  our  his- 
torian he  is  not  to  give  his  own  serious  and  deliberately- 
formed  opinion  on  the  tenets  of  a  sect  whose  rise  and 
progress  he  undertakes  as  his  theme;  nor  can  I  or  do  I 
expect  that  opinion  to  be  in  precise  accordance  with  our 
own;  but  the  more  immediate  object  of  this  address  is  to 
induce  thee,  if  any  inducement  can  be  needful,  to  regard 
this  point  of  religious  doctrine  as  one  on  which  it  becomes 


TO     ROBERT     SOUTHEY.  161 

even  the  acutest  and  strongest  of  human  intellects  to  write 
with  diffidence;  as  one  on  which  it  is  very  possible  to 
darken  counsel  by  words  without  knowledge.  It  will 
ever  remain,  at  least  such  is  my  belief,  after  philosophy 
and  even  theology  have  exhausted  their  powers  in  its 
discussion,  a  point  of  abstract  faith,  of  deep  feeling;  —  to 
be  humbly  believed,  to  be  meekly  obeyed;  but  not  to  be 
too  curiously  analysed,  or  lightly  argued  upon.  Those 
who  reverently  and  devoutly  believe  its  truth,  and  think 
they  feel  its  efficacy,  are  not  very  likely  to  abandon 
it;  and  even  those  who  think  it  fallacious,  may  perhaps 
wisely  pause,  before  they  attempt  to  prove  its  fallacy ;  lest 
in  demonstrating  the  impossibility  of  the  Holy  Spirit 
being  a  perceptible  guide,  and  its  dictates  not  only  re- 
motely, but  immediately  influential,  they  should,  however 
undesignedly,  inflict  pain  on  those  who  think  differently; 
lower,  or  at  least  lessen,  A  GIFT  for  which,  according  to 
their  view  of  it,  they  supplicate  publicly,  and  afford  cause  of 
triumph  to  those  who  avowedly  deny  its  existence. 

Believing,  as  I  do^  that  on  thy  susceptibility  of  feeling 
and  correctness  of  judging  respecting  this  one  point  much 
of  the  value  of  thy  history,  of  its  utility  to  others,  as  well 
as  ourselves,  must  in  great  measure  depend,  I  cannot 
apologize  for  the  freedom  I  have  taken  in  expressing  my 
opinions  or  feelings  respecting  it.  Without  a  capacity  to 
appreciate  this  principle,  as  held  by  our  early  predecessors, 
it  appears  to  me  impossible  to  write  their  history  fairly ;  — 
with  it,  I  have  no  apprehension  of  thy  erring  very  mate- 
rially. Thus  thinking,  it  would  be  a  great  satisfaction  to 
me,  if  I  may  ask  such  a  favour,  to  know  something  of  thy 
sentiments  on  this  subject.  Perfect  coincidence  with  ours 
I  do  not  expect ;  but  I  should  be  sorry  to  find  our  friendly 
historian,  for  such  I  am  persuaded  thou  art  in  intention, 
14* 


162  LETTERS. 

among  those  who  can  for  a  moment  doubt  that  "  there  is  a 
Spirit  in  man,  and  the  inspiration  of  the  Almighty  giveth 
him  understanding!" 

Thine  most  affectionately, 

B.  B. 


July  9, 1821. 

MY  DEAR  SIR, 

I  HAD  not  leisure  to  reply  to  your  former  letter 
when  it  arrived ;  a  full  reply  to  it,  indeed,  would  require  a 
dissertation  rather  than  a  letter.  The  influence  of  the 
Holy  Spirit  is  believed  by  all  Christians,  except  the  ultra 
Socinians;  the  more  pious  Socinians  would  admit  it, 
though  under  a  different  name.  But  the  question  what  is, 
and  what  is  not  the  effect  of  that  influence,  is  precisely 
asking  where,  in  religious  cases,  reason  ends,  and  insanity 
begins.  In  all  communities  of  Christians  there  have  been 
and  are  persons,  who  mistake  their  own  imaginations  for 
inspiration;  and  that  this  was  done  in  some  cases  by  the 
early  Quakers,  the  present  members  of  that  Society  would 
not  deny. 

It  is  always  my  custom  to  have  a  work  long  in  my 
thoughts  before  it  is  taken  actually  in  hand;  and  to  col- 
lect materials  and  let  the  plan  digest  while  my  main  occu- 
pation is  upon  some  other  subject  which  has  undergone 
the  same  slow  but  necessary  process.  At  present,  I  am 
printing  "The  History  of  the  Peninsular  War/'  a  great 


FROM  ROBERT  SOUTHEY.         163 

work,  and  it  is  probable  that  this  is  not  the  only  work 
which  I  shall  bring  out,  before  "The  Life  of  George  Fox57 
becomes  my  immediate  business.  One  great  advantage 
arising  from  this  practice  is,  that  much  in  the  mean  time  is 
collected  in  the  course  of  other  pursuits  which  would  not 
have  been  found  by  a  direct  search ;  facts  and  observations 
of  great  importance  frequently  occurring  where  the  most 
diligent  investigator  would  never  think  of  looking  for 
them.  The  habit  of  noting  and  arranging  such  memor- 
anda is  acquired  gradually;  and  can  hardly  be  learnt 
otherwise  than  by  experience. 

So  Buonaparte  is  now  as  dead  as  Caesar  and  Alexander ! 
I  did  not  read  the  tidings  of  his  death  without  a  mournful 
feeling,  which  I  am  sure  you  also  must  have  experienced, 
and  which  I  think  you  are  likely  as  well  as  able  to  ex- 
press in  verse.  It  is  an  event  which  will  give  birth  to 
many  poems,  but  I  know  no  one  so  likely  as  yourself  to 
touch  the  right  strings. 

Farewell,  and  believe  me, 

Yours  very  truly, 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

I  do  not  remember  whether  I  told  you  that  Thomas 
Wilkinson,  who  is  a  collector  of  autographs,  showed  me  a 
specimen  of  George  Fox's  hand- writing,  and  told  me  it 
bore  a  remarkable  resemblance  to  Mirabeau's,  than  whom 
it  would  not  be  possible  to  find  a  man  more  unlike  him  in 
every  thing  else. 


164  LETTERS. 


[On  receiving  from  Mr.  Barton  a  MS.  specimen,  and  afterwards  the 
printed  volume,  of  his  "  Napoleon."] 


Keswick,  22nd  August,  1821. 

I  LIKE  your  specimen  in  every  thing,  except  in 
its  praise  of  Bertrand.  A  man  does  not  deserve  to  be 
praised  for  constant  worth  whose  merit  consists  in  fidelity 
to  a  wicked  master.  If  this  is  to  be  admitted  as  virtue, 
the  devil  may  have  his  saints  and  martyrs.  No  man  of 
worth  could  have  adhered  to  Buonaparte  after  the  murder 
of  the  Due  D'Enghien,  and  after  his  conduct  to  Portugal 
and  Spain.  I  say  nothing  of  former  atrocities,  because, 
before  they  were  confessed  by  Buonaparte  himself,  they 
were  denied,  and  might  have  been  deemed  doubtful;  but 
these  crimes  were  public  and  notorious,  and  not  to  be  ex- 
tenuated, not  to  be  forgotten,  not  to  be  forgiven. 

I  notice  only  one  line  in  which  the  meaning  is  ambigu- 
ously expressed —  "Thy  power  man's  strength  alone ;"  — 
perhaps  I  might  not  have  noticed  it  if  the  want  of  perspi- 
cuity did  not  arise  in  part  from  a  license  which  I  detected 
myself  in  committing  this  morning  —  the  use  of  alone 
instead  of  only.  What  you  mean  to  say,  is,  that  man's  only 
strength  is  thy  power;  but  as  the  words  now  stand  they 
may  convey  an  opposite  meaning. 


FROM  ROBERT  SOUTHEY.         165 


18th  May,  1822. 

THANK  you  for  your  volume,  which  I  received 
three  hours  ago  —  long  enough  to  have  read  the  principal 
poem,  and  a  large  portion  of  the  minor  ones.  They  do  you 
great  credit.  Nothing  can  be  better  than  the  descriptive 
and  sentimental  parts.  In  the  reasoning  ones,  you  some- 
times appear  to  me  to  have  fallen  into  Charles  Lloyd's 
prosing  vein.  The  verse  indeed  is  better  than  his,  but 
the  matter  sometimes,  (though  rarely,)  like  much  of  his 
later  compositions,  incapable  of  deriving  any  advantage 
from  metre.  The  seventh  stanza  is  the  strongest  exam- 
ple of  this.  On  the  other  hand,  this  is  well  compensated 
by  many  rich  passages  and  a  frequent  felicity  of  expres- 
sion. Your  poem,  if  it  had  suited  your  object  so  to  have 
treated  it,  might  have  derived  further  interest  from  a  view 
of  Buonaparte's  system  of  policy,  the  end  at  which  he 
aimed,  and  the  means  which  he  used.  I  believe  that  no 
other  individual  ever  occasioned  so  much  wretchedness 
and  evil  as  the  direct  consequence  of  his  own  will  and 
pleasure.  His  partisans  acknowledge  that  the  attempted 
usurpation  of  Spain  was  his  sole  act,  and  it  was  so  pal- 
pably unjust,  that  the  very  generals  who  served  him  in  it, 
condemn  it  without  reserve.  That  war,  in  its  progress 
and  consequences,  has  not  cost  so  little  as  a  million  of  lives, 
and  the  account  is  far  from  being  closed. 

You  will  not  like  Buonaparte  the  better,  perhaps,  if  I 
confess  to  you  that,  had  it  not  been  for  him,  I  should  per- 
haps have  assented  to  your  general  principle  concerning 
the  unlawfulness  of  war,  in  its  full  extent.  But  when  I  saw 
that  he  was  endeavouring  to  establish  a  military  despotism 


166  LETTERS. 

throughout  Europe,  which,  if  not  successfully  withstood 
abroad,  must  at  last  have  reached  us  on  our  own  shores, 
I  considered  him  as  a  Philistine  or  a  heathen,  and  went  for 
a  doctrine  applicable  to  the  times,  to  the  books  of  Judges 
and  of  Maccabees.  Nevertheless,  I  will  fairly  acknow- 
ledge that  the  doctrine  of  non-resistance  connected  with 
non-obedience  is  the  strongest  point  of  Quakerism.  And 
nothing  can  be  said  against  it  but  that  the  time  for  the 
general  acceptance  is  not  yet  come.  Would  to  God  that 
it  were  nearer  than  it  appears  to  be  ! 


Keswick,  29^  December,  1837. 

MY  DEAR  SIR, 

I  AM  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  daughter's 
very  elegant  little  volume,*  and  heartily  wish  it  may  prove 
both  as  successful  as  she  can  wish,  and  as  useful  as  she 
intends  it  to  be. 

The  worst  of  all  errors  in  religion,  because  in  its  con- 
sequences the  most  heart-hardening  to  individuals,  and 
the  most  dangerous  to  society,  is  the  belief  that  salvation 
is  exclusively  confined  to  a  particular  church  or  sect. 
Wherever  that  opinion  prevails  there  is  an  end  of  Chris- 
tian charity.  I  rejoice  therefore  that  you  and  your  daugh- 
ter are  both  catholic  Christians,  and  are  agreed  that  though 

*  Gospel  History. 


FROM  ROBERT  SOUTHEY.        167 

one  goes  to  church,  and  the  other  to  meeting,  both  may 
go  to  heaven,  and  both  are  on  the  road  thither.  May  we 
all  meet  there. 

Yours  very  truly,   and  with    many  thanks    and    good 
wishes  to  your  daughter, 

EGBERT  SOUTHEY. 


FROM  CHARLES  LAMB. 


December  1,  1824. 

DEAR  B.  B. 

IF  Mr.  Mitford  will  send  me  a  full  and  circum- 
stantial description  of  his  desired  vases,  I  will  transmit  the 
same  to  a  gentleman  resident  at  Canton,  whom  I  think  I 
have  interest  enough  in  to  take  the  proper  care  for  their 
execution.  But  Mr.  M.  must  have  patience,  China  is  a 
great  way  off,  farther  perhaps  than  he  thinks;  and  his 
next  year's  roses  must  be  content  to  wither  in  a  wedge- 
wood-pot.  He  will  please  to  say  whether  he  should  like 
his  "arms"  upon  them,  &c.  I  send  herewith  some  pat- 
terns which  suggest  themselves  to  me  at  the  first  blush  of 
the  subject,  but  he  will  probably  consult  his  own  taste 
after  all. 


The  last  pattern  is  obviously  fitted  for  ranunculuses  only. 
The  two  former  may  indifferently  hold  daisies,  marjoram, 
sweet-williams,    and    that    sort.      My    friend    in    Canton 

(168) 


FROM    CHARLES    LAMB.  169 

is  Inspector  of  Teas,  his  name  is  Ball ;  and  I  can  think  of 
no  better  tunnel.     I  shall  expect  Mr.  M.'s  decision. 

T.  and  H.  finding  their  magazine  goes  off  very  heavily 
at  2s.  6d.  are  prudently  going  to  raise  their  price  another 
shilling ;  and  having  already  more  authors  than  they  want, 
intend  to  increase  the  number  of  them.  If  they  set  up 
against  the  "New  Monthly/'  they  must  change  their  pre- 
sent hands.  It  is  not  tying  the  dead  carcass  of  a  Keview 
to  a  half-dead  Magazine  will  do  their  business.  It  is  like 
G-.  D.  multiplying  his  volumes  to  make  'em  sell  better. 
When  he  finds  one  will  not  go  off,  he  publishes  two;  two 
stick,  he  tries  three ;  three  hang  fire,  he  is  confident  that  a 
fourth  will  have  a  better  chance. 


July  2,  1825. 
MY  DEAR  B.  B., 

MY  nervous  attack  has  so  unfitted  me,  that  I 
have  not  courage  to  sit  down  to  a  letter.  My  poor  pit- 
tance in  the  "London"  you  will  see  is  drawn  from  my 
sickness.  Your  book  is  very  acceptable  to  me,  because 
most  of  it  is  new  to  me;  but  your  book  itself  we  cannot 
thank  you  for  more  sincerely  than  for  the  introduction 
you  favoured  me  with  to  A.  K.  Now,  I  cannot  write  Mrs. 

A.  K.   for  the   life   of  me.     She   is  a  very  pleas 

but  I  won't  write  all  we  have  said  of  her  so  often  to  our- 
selves, because  I  suspect  you  would  read  it  to  her.  Only 
give  my  sister's  and  my  kindest  remembrances  to  her,  and 
how  glad  we  are  we  can  say  that  word.  If  ever  she 
15 


170  LETTERS. 

come  to  Southwark  again,  I  count  upon  another  Bridge 
walk  with  her.  Tell  her  I  got  home  time  for  a  rubber; 
but  poor  Tryphena  will  not  understand  that  phrase  of  the 
worldling. 

I  am  hardly  able  to  appreciate  your  volume  now.  But 
I  liked  the  Dedication  much,  and  the  apology  for  your  bald 
burying-grounds.  To  Shelley,  but  that  is  not  new.  To 
the  young  Vesper-singer,  Great  Bealings,  Playford,  and 
what  not? 

If  there  be  a  cavil,  it  is  that  the  topics  of  religious  con- 
solation, however  beautiful,  are  repeated  till  a  sort  of  trite- 
ness attends  them.  Do  children  die  so  often,  and  so  good, 
in  your  parts  ?  The  topic  taken  from  the  consideration 
that  they  are  snatched  away  from  possible  vanities,  seems 
hardly  sound;  for  to  an  omniscient  eye  their  conditional 
failings  must  be  one  with  their  actual;  but  I  am  too  un- 
well for  Theology  —  such  as  I  am, 

I  am  yours  and  A.  K/s  truly, 

C.  LAMB. 


August  10,  1825. 
DEAR  B.  B., 

You  must  excuse  my  not  writing  before,  when  I 
tell  you  we  are  on  a  visit  to  Enfield,  where  I  do  not  feel  it 
natural  to  sit  down  to  a  letter.  It  is  at  all  times  an  exer- 
tion. I  had  rather  talk  with  you,  and  A.  K.,  quietly  at 
Colebrooke  Lodge,  over  the  matter  of  your  last.  You  mis- 
take me  when  you  express  misgivings  about  my  relish- 
ing a  series  of  Scriptural  poems  I  wrote  confusedly — 


FROM     CHARLES     LAMB.  171 

what  I  meant  to  say  was;  that  one  or  two  consolatory 
poems  on  deaths  would  have  had  a  more  condensed  effect 
than  many.  Scriptural  devotional  topics  admit  of  infinite 
variety.  So  far  from  poetry  tiring  me  because  religious,  I 
can  read,  and  I  say  it  seriously,  the  homely  old  version  of 
the  Psalms  in  our  Prayer  Books  for  an  hour  or  two  together 
sometimes,  without  sense  of  weariness. 

I  did  not  express  myself  clearly  about  what  I  think  a 
false  topic  insisted  on  so  frequently  in  consolatory  ad- 
dresses on  the  death  of  infants.  I  know  something  like  it 
is  in  Scripture,  but  I  think  humanly  spoken.  It  is  a  na- 
tural thought,  a  sweet  fallacy  to  the  survivors  —  but  still 
a  fallacy. 


"1826." 
DEAR  B.  B., 

I  DON'T  know  why  I  have  delayed  so  long 
writing.  'Twas  a  fault.  The  under-current  of  excuse  to 
my  mind  was,  that  I  had  heard  of  the  vessel  in  which 
Mitford's  jars  were  to  come;  that  it  had  been  obliged  to 
put  in  to  Batavia  to  refit,  (which  accounts  for  its  delay,) 
but  was  daily  expected.  Days  are  past,  and  it  comes  not, 
and  the  mermaids  may  be  drinking  their  tea  out  of  his 
china  for  aught  I  know ;  but  let 's  hope  not.  In  the  mean 
time,  I  have  paid  £28,  &c.,  for  the  freight  and  prime  cost. 
But  do  not  mention  it.  I  was  enabled  to  do  it  by  a 
receipt  of  £30  from  Colburn,  with  whom,  however,  I  have 
done.  I  should  else  have  run  short,  for  I  just  make  ends 


172  LETTERS. 

meet.     We  will  await  the  arrival  of  the  trinkets,  and  to 
ascertain  their  full  expense,  and  then  bring  in  the  bill. 

I  am  very  sorry  you  and  yours  have  any  plagues  about 
dross  matters.  I  have  been  sadly  puzzled  at  the  defalcation 
of  more  than  one-third  of  my  income,  out  of  which  when 
entire  I  saved  nothing.  But  cropping  off  wine,  old  books, 
&c.,  &c.,  in  short,  all  that  can  be  called  pocket-money,  I  hope 
to  be  able  to  go  on  at  the  Cottage. 

Colburn  has  something  of  mine  in  last  month,  which  he 
has  had  in  hand  these  seven  months,  and  had  lost,  or 
could  n't  find  room  for :  I  was  used  to  different  treatment  in 
the  "  London/'  and  have  forsworn  periodicals. 

I  am  going  through  a  course  of  reading  at  the  Museum — 
the  Garrick  plays,  out  of  part  of  which  I  formed  my  spe- 
cimens }  I  have  two  thousand  to  go  through,  and  in  a  few 
weeks  have  despatched  the  tithe  of  'em.  It  is  a  sort  of 
office  to  me — hours,  ten  to  four,  the  same.  It  does  me  good ; 
man  must  have  regular  occupation  that  has  been  used  to 
it.  So  A.  K.  keeps  a  school !  She  teaches  nothing  wrong, 
I'll  answer  for't.  I  have  a  Dutch  print  of  a  schoolmis- 
tress; little  old-fashioned  Fleminglings,  with  only  one  face 
among  them.  She,  a  princess  of  a  schoolmistress,  wielding 
a  rod  for  form  more  than  use :  the  scene  an  old  monastic 
chapel,  with  a  Madonna  over  her  head,  looking  just  as 
serious,  as  thoughtful,  as  pure,  as  gentle,  as  herself.  'Tis 
a  type  of  thy  friend. 

Will  you  pardon  my  neglect  ?  Mind,  again  I  say,  not  to 
show  this  to  M.  j  let  me  wait  a  little  longer,  to  know  the 
event  of  his  luxuries.  Heaven  send  him  his  jars  uncracked, 

and  me  my .  / 

Yours  with  kindest  wishes^to  your  daughter  and 
friend,  in  which  Mary  joins, 

C.  L. 


FROM     CHARLES     LAMB.  173 


DEAR  B.  B., 

THE  "Busy  Bee,"  as  Hood,  after  Dr.  Watts, 
apostrophizes  thee;  and  well  dost  thou  deserve  it  for  thy 
labours  in  the  Muse's  gardens,  wandering  over  parterres 
of  Think-on-mes  and  Forget-me-nots,  to  a  total  impossi- 
bility of  forgetting  thee :  — thy  letter  was  acceptable,  thy 
scruples  may  be  dismissed,  thou  art  rectus  in  curia,  —  not  a 
word  more  to  be  said,  verbum  sapienti,  and  so  forth,  the 
matter  is  decided  with  a  white  stone,  (classically,  mark 
me,)  and  the  apparitions  vanished  that  haunted  me, — only 
the  cramp,  Caliban's  distemper,  clawing  me  in  the  calvish 
part  of  my  nature,  making  me  ever  and  anon  roar  bullishly, 
squeak  cowardishly,  and  limp  cripple-ishly.  Do  I  write 
Quakerly  and  simply?  'Tis  my  most  Master  Mathews-like 
intention  to  do  it.  See  Ben  Jonson.  —  I  think  you  told 
me  your  acquaintance  with  the  drama  was  confined  to 
Shakspeare  and  Miss  Bailly  —  some  read  only  Milton  and 
Croly.  The  gap  is  from  an  ananas  to  a  turnip.  I  have 
fighting  in  my  head  the  plots,  characters,  situations,  and 
sentiments  of  four  hundred  old  plays,  (bran  new  to  me,) 
which  I  have  been  digesting  at  the  Museum,  and  my  ap- 
petite sharpens  to  twice  as  many  more,  which  I  mean  to 
course  over  this  winter.  I  can  scarce  avoid  dialogue 
fashion  in  this  letter.  I  soliloquize  my  meditations,  and 
habitually  speak  dramatic  blank  verse  without  meaning  it. 
Do  you  see  Mitford  ?  he  will  tell  you  something  of  my 
labours.  Tell  him  I  am  sorry  to  have  missed  seeing  him, 
to  have  talked  over  those  .old  TREASURES.  I  am  still  more 
15* 


174  LETTERS. 

sorry  for  his  missing  pots.*  But  I  shall  be  sure  of  the 
earliest  intelligence  of  the  lost  tribes.  His  "  Sacred 
Specimens"  are  a  thankful  addition  to  my  shelves.  Marry, 
I  could  wish  he  had  been  more  careful  of  corrigenda  — 
I  have  discovered  certain  which  have  slipt  in  his  errata. 
I  put  'em  in  the  next  page,  as  perhaps  thou  canst  transmit 
them  to  him.  For  what  purpose,  but  to  grieve  him? 
(which  yet  I  should  be  sorry  to  do ;)  but  then  it  shows  my 
learning,  and  the  excuse  is  complimentary,  as  it  implies 
their  correction  in  a  future  edition.  His  own  things  in 
the  book  are  magnificent,  and  as  old  Christ's  Hospitaller, 
I  was  particularly  refreshed  with  his  eulogy  of  our  Ed- 
ward. Many  of  the  choice  excerpta  were  new  to  me. 
Old  Christmas  is  a  coming,  to  the  confusion  of  Puritans, 
Muggletonians,  Anabaptists,  Quakers,  and  that  unwas- 
sailing  crew.  He  cometh  not  with  his  wonted  gait ;  he  is 
shrunk  nine  inches  in  the  girth,  but  is  yet  a  lusty  fellow. 
Hood's  book  is  mighty  clever,  and  went  off  six  hundred 
copies  the  first  day.  Sion's  songs  do  not  disperse  so 
quickly.  The  next  leaf  is  for  Rev.  J.  M.f  In  this, 

ADIEU. 
Thine  briefly  in  a  tall  friendship, 

C.  LAMB. 

*  The  China  vases  before  mentioned. 

t  Containing  corrigenda  for  the  "  Sacred  Specimens." 


PROM    CHARLES    LAMB.  175 


"  June  llth,  1827. 

MARTIN'S  Belshazzar  (the  picture)  I  have  seen; 
its  architectural  effect  is  stupendous,  but  the  human  figures, 
the  squalling  contorted  little  antics  that  are  playing  at 
being  frightened,  like  children  at  a  sham  ghost  who  half 
know  it  to  be  a  mask,  are  detestable.  Then  the  letters 
are  nothing  more  than  a  transparency  lighted  up,  such  as  a 
lord  might  order  to  be  lit  up  on  a  sudden  at  a  Christmas 
gambol,  to  scare  the  ladies.  The  type  is  as  plain  as  Bas- 
kerviPs;  they  should  have  b5en  dim,  full  of  mystery  — 
letters  to  the  mind  rather  than  the  eye.  Rembrandt  has 
painted  a  Belshazzar  and  a  courtier  or  two,  (taking  a  part 
of  the  banquet  for  the  whole,)  not  fribbled  out  a  mob  of 
fine  folks.  Then  every  thing  is  so  distinct,  to  the  very 
necklaces }  and  that  foolish  little  prophet  —  what  one  point 
is  there  of  interest?  The  ideal  of  such  a  subject  is  that 
you,  the  spectator,  should  see  nothing  but  what  at  the  time 
you  would  have  seen  —  the  hand  and  the  king ;  not  to  be 
at  leisure  to  make  tailor-remarks  on  the  dresses,  or,  Doctor- 
Kitchener-like,  to  examine  the  good  things  at  table. 

Just  such  a  confused  piece  is  his  Joshua  —  frittered  into 
a  thousand  fragments,  little  armies  here,  little  armies  there ; 

—  you  should  only  see  the  sun  and  Joshua ;  if  I  remem- 
ber, he   has   not   left   out   that  luminary  entirely,  but  for 
Joshua,  I  was  ten  minutes  a  finding  him. 

Still  he  is  showy  in  all  that  is  not  the  human  figure  or 
the  preternatural  interest :  but  the  first  are  below  a 
drawing-school  girl's  attainment,  and  the  last  is  a  phantas- 
magoric trick  —  "  Now  you  shall  see  what  you  shall  see : 

—  dare  is  Belshazzar,  and  dare  is  Daniel." 


176  LETTERS. 


MY  DEAR  B.  B., 

You  will  understand  my  silence  when  I  tell  you 
that  my  sister,  on  the  very  eve  of  entering  into  a  new 
house  we  have  taken  at  Enfield,  was  surprised  with  an 
attack  of  one  of  her  sad  long  illnesses,  which  deprive  me  of 
her  society,  though  not  of  her  domestication,  for  eight  or 
nine  weeks  together.  I  see  her,  but  it  does  her  no  good. 
But  for  this,  we  have  the  snuggest,  most  comfortable 
house,  with  every  thing  most  compact  and  desirable. 
Colebrook  is  a  wilderness :  the  books,  prints,  &c.,  are  come 
here,  and  the  New  River  came  down  with  us.  The  fami- 
liar prints,  the  bust,  the  Milton,  seem  scarce  to  have 
changed  their  rooms.  One  of  her  last  observations  was, 
"  How  frightfully  like  this  room  is  to  our  room  at  Isling- 
ton!"—  our  up-stairs,  she  meant.  How  I  hope  you  will 
come,  some  better  day,  and  judge  of  it!  We  have  lived 
quiet  here  for  four  months,  and  I  will  answer  for  the  com- 
fort of  it  enduring. 

On  emptying  my  bookshelves,  I  found  a  Ulysses,* 
which  I  will  send  to  A.  K.  when  I  go  to  town,  for  her  ac- 
ceptance—  unless  the  book  be  out  of  print.  One  likes  to 
have  one  copy  of  every  thing  one  does.  I  neglected  to 
keep  one  of  "  Poetry  for  Children/'  the  joint  production  of 
Mary  and  me,  and  it  is  not  to  be  had  for  love  or  money. 

*  One  of  Mr.  Lamb's  version  of  Chapman's  Odyssey. 


FROM     CHARLES     LAMB.  177 


DEAR  B.  B., 

WE  are  pretty  well  and  comfortable,  and  I  take 
a  first  opportunity  of  sending  the  "  Adventures  of  Ulysses," 
hoping  that  among  us  —  Homer,  Chapman,  and  Co.,  we 
shall  afford  you  some  pleasure.  I  fear  it  is  out  of  print; 
if  not,  A.  K.  will  accept  it,  with  wishes  it  were  bigger; 
if  another  copy  is  not  to  be  had,  it  reverts  to  me  and  my 
heirs  for  ever.  With  it  I  send  a  trumpery  book;  to  which, 
without  my  knowledge,  the  editor  of  the  "Bijoux"  has 
contributed  Lucy's  verses;  I  am  ashamed  to  ask  her  ac- 
ceptance of  the  trash  accompanying  it.  Adieu  to  Albums 
for  a  great  while,  I  said,  when  I  came  here ;  and  had  not 
been  fixed  two  days,  but  my  landlord's  daughter  (not  at 
the  pot-house)  requested  me  to  write  in  her  female  friend's, 
and  in  her  own.  All  over  the  Leeward  Islands,  in  New- 
foundland, and  the  Back  Settlements,  I  understand  there 
is  no  other  reading.  They  haunt  me.  I  die  of  Albo- 
phobia ! 


"1827. 
MY  DEAR  B.  B., 

A  GENTLEMAN  I  never  saw  before  brought  me 
your  welcome  present.*  Imagine  a  scraping,  fiddling, 
fidgeting,  petit-maitre  of  a  dancing-school  advancing  into 
my  parlour,  with  a  coupee  and  a  sidelong  bow,  and  pre- 

*  The  "Widow's  Tale,"  &c. 


178  LETTERS. 

senting  the  book  as  if  he  had  been  handing  a  glass  of 
lemonade  to  a  young  Miss  —  imagine  this  and  contrast  it 
with  the  serious  nature  of  the  book  presented.  Then  task 
your  imagination,  reversing  this  picture,  to  conceive  of 
quite  an  opposite  messenger,  a  lean,  straight-locked,  whey- 
faced  Methodist,  for  such  was  he  in  reality  who  brought 
it,  the  genius  (it  seems)  of  the  "Wesleyan  Magazine." 
Certes,  friend  B.,  thy  "Widow's  Tale"  is  too  horrible, 
spite  of  the  lenitives  of  religion,  to  embody  in  verse;  I 
hold  prose  to  be  the  proper  exposition  of  such  atrocities! 
No  offence,  but  it  is  a  cordial  that  makes  the  heart  sick. 
Still,  thy  skill  in  compounding  it  I  do  not  deny.  I  turn 
to  what  gave  me  less  mingled  pleasure.  I  find  marked 
with  pencil  these  pages  in  thy  pretty  book,  and  fear  I  have 
been  penurious. 

Page  52,  53,  capital. 

59,  sixth  stanza,  exquisite  simile. 
61,  eleventh  stanza,  equally  good. 

108,  third  stanza,  I  long  to  see  Van  Balen. 

Ill,  a  downright  good  sonnet.     Dixi. 

153,  lines  at  bottom.* 

*  Pages  52,  53,  refer  to  the  poem  "  Which  Things  are  a  Shadow." 
59,  61,  to  the  sixth  and  eleventh  stanzas  of  "  A  Grandsire's  Tale." 
The  "  downright  good  sonnet,"  is  "  To  a  Grandmother."  All  of  these 
are  included  in  this  Selection.  The  "  third  stanza"  at  108,  that  made 
Lamb  long  to  see  Van  Balen,  was  from  a  little  poem  describing  a 
picture  by  that  artist  that  represented  some  angel  children  leading  up 
a  lamb  to  the  infant  Saviour  in  his  mother's  lap : 

No  —  rather  like  that  beauteous  boy, 

Who  turns  round  silently  to  stay 
Those  infant  angels  in  their  joy, 

As  if  too  loud  their  gentle  play, — 
Like  him  I  pause  with  doubtful  mien, 
As  loth  to  break  on  such  a  scene. 


FROM    CHAELES     LAMB.  179 

So  you  see,  I  read,  hear,  and  mark,  if  I  don't  learn.  In 
short,  this  little  volume  is  no  discredit  to  any  of  your 
former,  and  betrays  none  of  the  senility  you  fear  about. 

Apropos  of  Van  Balen,  an  artist  who  painted  me  lately 
had  painted  a  blackamoor  praying;  and  not  filling  his 
canvass,  stuffed  in  his  little  girl  aside  of  blacky,  gaping  at 
him  unmeaningly ;  and  then  did  not  know  what  to  call  it. 
Now  for  a  picture  to  be  promoted  to  the  exhibition  (Suf- 
folk-street) as  historical,  a  subject  is  requisite.  What  does 
me  I,  but  christen  it  the  "  Young  Catechist,"  and  furbished 
it  with  dialogue  following,  which  dubb'd  it  an  historical 
painting.  Nothing  to  a  friend  at  need. 

While  this  tawny  Ethiop  prayeth, 
Painter,  who  is  she  that  stayeth 
By,  with  skin  of  whitest  lustre ; 
Sunny  locks,  a  shining  cluster ; 
Saint-like  seeming  to  direct  him 
To  the  power  that  must  protect  him  ? 
Is  she  of  the  heav'n-born  Three, 
Meek  Hope,  strong  Faith,  sweet  Charity? 
Or  some  cherub? 

They  you  mention 
Far  transcend  my  weak  invention. 
'Tis  a  simple  Christian  child, 
Missionary  young  and  mild, 
From  her  store  of  Scriptural  knowledge, 
(Bible-taught  without  a  college,) 

The  "  153.  lines  at  bottom,"  are  these  :  — 

Though  even  in  the  yet  unfolded  rose 

The  worm  may  lurk,  and  sin  blight  blooming  youth , 

The  light  born  with  us  long  so  brightly  glows, 
That  childhood's  first  deceits  seem  almost  truth 
To  life's  cold  after-lie,  selfish  and  void  of  ruth. 


180  LETTERS. 

Which  by  reading  she  could  gather, 
Teaches  him  to  say  Our  Father 
To  the  common  Parent,  who 
Colour  not  respects  nor  hue 
White  and  black  in  Him  have  part 
Who  looks  not  on  the  skin,  but  heart. 

When  I  had  done  it,  the  artist  (who  had  clapt  in  Miss 
merely  as  a  fill-space)  swore  I  expressed  his  full  meaning, 
and  the  damosel  bridled  up  into  a  Missionary's  vanity.  I 
like  verses  to  explain  pictures;  seldom  pictures  to  illus- 
trate poems.  Your  wood-cut  is  a  rueful  signum  mortis. 
By  the  bye,  is  the  widow  likely  to  marry  again  ? 

I  am  giving  the  fruit  of  my  Old  Play  reading  at  the 
Museum,  to  Hone,  who  sets  forth  a  portion  weekly  in  the 
"  Table  Book."  Do  you  see  it  ?  How  is  Mitford  ? 

I '11  just  hint  that  " the  pitcher,"  "the  cord,"  and  "the 
bowl,"  are  a  little  too  often  repeated  (passim)  in  your 
book,  and  that  in  page  17,  last  line  but  four,  him  is  put  for 
he ;  but  the  poor  widow  I  take  it  had  small  leisure  for 
grammatical  niceties.  Don't  you  see  there's  he,  myself, 
and  him;  why  not  both  him?*  Likewise  imperviously  is 
cruelly  spelt  imperiously.  These  are  trifles,  and  I  honestly 
like  your  book,  and  you  for  giving  it,  though  I  really  am 
ashamed  of  so  many  presents. 

I  can  think  of  no  news,  therefore  I  will  end  with  mine 
and  Mary's  kindest  remembrances  to  you  and  yours. 

C.  L. 

*  Another  and  another  sank;  and  now 
But  three  of  all  our  crew  were  left  behind : 

He  unto  whom  my  lip  had  pledged  a  vow 

Which  closer  seem'd  in  this  sad  hour  to  bind, 

Myself,  and  him,  to  whom  was  erst  assign'd 
Our  ship's  command  — 


FROM     CHARLES     LAMB.  181 


"MarchZS,  1829." 

I  HAVE  just  come  from  Town,  where  I  have 
been  to  get  my  bit  of  quarterly  pension.  And  have 
brought  home,  from  stalls  in  Barbican,  the  old  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress"  with  the  prints,  "  Vanity  Fair/'  &c.,  now  scarce. 
Four  shillings.  Cheap.  And  also  one  of  whom  I  have 
oft  heard  and  had  dreams,  but  never  saw  in  the  flesh  — 
that  is,  in  sheepskin  —  "  The  whole  theologic  works  of 

Thomas  Aquinas !" 

My  arms  ached  with  lugging  it  a  mile  to  the  stage,  but 
the  burden  was  a  pleasure,  such  as  old  Anchises  was  to 
the  shoulders  of  >ZEneas ;  or  the  Lady  to  the  Lover  in  the 
old  romance,  who  having  to  carry  her  to  the  top  of  a  high 
mountain  —  the  price  of  obtaining  her  —  clambered  with  her 
to  the  top  and  fell  dead  with  fatigue. 

0  the  glorious  old  schoolmen ! 

There  must  be  something  in  him.  Such  great  names  im- 
ply greatness.  Who  hath  seen  Michel  Angelo's  things  — 
of  us  that  never  pilgrimaged  to  Rome  —  and  yet  which  of 
us  disbelieves  his  greatness?  How  I  will  revel  in  his 
cobwebs  and  subtleties  till  my  brain  spins  ! 

N.  B.  I  have  writ  in  the  Old  Hamlet*  —  offer  it  to 
Mitford  in  my  name,  if  he  have  not  seen  it.  ;Tis  woefully 
below  our  editions  of  it.  But  keep  it,  if  you  like. 

I  do  not  mean  this  to  go  for  a  letter,  only  to  apprize 
you  that  the  parcel  is  booked  for  you  this  25th  March, 
1829,  from  the  Four  Swans,  Bishopsgate. 

With  both  our  loves  to  Lucy  and  A.  K. 
Yours  ever. 

C.  L. 

*  The  reprint  of  the  first  quarto,  in  which  C.  L.  wrote  his  name. 

16 


182  LETTERS. 


«  August  3Q,  1830." 

DEAR  B.  B., 

MY  address  is  34,  Southampton  Buildings,  Hoi- 
born.  For  God's  sake  do  not  let  me  be  pestered  with 
Annuals.  They  are  all  rogues  who  edit  them,  and  some- 
thing else  who  write  in  them.  I  am  still  alone,  and  very 
much  out  of  sorts,  and  cannot  spur  up  my  mind  to  writing. 
The  sight  of  one  of  those  Year  Books  makes  me  sick. 
I  get  nothing  by  any  of  'em,  not  even  a  copy. 

Thank  you  for  your  warm  interest  about  my  little 
volume,*  for  the  critiques  on  which  I  care  the  five  hundred 
thousandth  part  of  the  tithe  of  a  half  farthing. 

I  am  too  old  a  militant  for  that.  How  noble,  though, 
in  R.  S.  to  come  forward  for  an  old  friend,  who  had  treated 
him  so  unworthily. 

Moxon  has  a  shop  without  customers,  and  I  a  book 
without  readers.  But  what  a  clamour  against  a  poor  col- 
lection of  Album  verses,  as  if  we  had  put  forth  an  Epic. 

I  cannot  scribble  a  long  letter  —  I  am,  when  not  at 
foot  (?)  very  desolate,  and  take  no  interest  in  anything, 
scarce  hate  anything,  but  annuals.  I  am  in  an  interreg- 
num of  thought  and  feeling. 

What  a  beautiful  autumn  morning  this  is,  if  it  was  but 
with  me  as  in  times  past,  when  the  candle  of  the  Lord 
shined  around  me  ! 

I  cannot  even  muster  enthusiasm  to  admire  the  French 
heroism. 

*  "  Album  verses,"  published  by  Mr.  Moxon  in  1830 ;  sneered  at 
by  some  of  the  Reviewers,  and  vindicated  in  a  Sonnet  by  Southey, 
inserted  in  "  The  Times"  newspaper. 


FROM     CHARLES     LAMB.  183 

In  better  times  I  hope  we  may  some  day  meet,  and  dis- 
cuss an  old  poem  or  two. 

But  if  you  ;d  have  me  not  sick, 

No  more  of  Annuals. 

C.  L.  EX-ELIA. 
Love  to  Lucy,  and  A.  K.,  always. 


"April,  1831." 
VIR  BONE! 

RECEPI  literas  tuas  amicissimas,  et  in  mentem 
venit  responsuro  mihi,  vel  raro,  vel  nunquam,  inter  nos 
intercedisse  Latinam  linguam,  organum  rescribendi,  lo- 
quendive.  Epistolse  tuae,  Plinianis  elegantiis  (supra  quod 
Tremulo  deceat)  repertae,  tarn  a  verbis  Plinianis  adeo  ab- 
horrent, ut  ne  vocem  quamquam  (Romanam  scilicet)  ha- 
bere  videaris,  quam  "ad  canem,"  ut  aiunt,  "rejectare 
possis." —  Forsan  desuetude  Latinissandi  ad  vernaculam 
linguam  usitandam,  plusquam  opus  sit,  coegit.  Per  adagia 
qusedam  nota,  et  in  ore  omnium  pervulgata,  ad  Latinitatis 
perditse  recuperationem  revocare  te  institui. 

Felis  in  abaco  est,  et  segre  videt. 
Omne  quod  splendet  nequaquam  aurum  putes. 
Imponas  equo  mendicum,  equitabit  idem  ad  diabolum. 
Fur  commode  a  fure  prenditur. 

O  Maria,  Maria,  valde  CONTRARIA,  quomodo  crescit 
hortulus  tuus? 


184  LETTERS. 

Nunc  majora  canamus. 

Thomas,  Thomas,  de  Islington,  uxorem  duxit  die  nuper& 
Dominica.  Reduxit  donmm  poster  EL  Succedenti  bacu- 
lum  emit.  Postridie  ferit  illam.  jEgrescit  ilia  subsequent!. 
Proximo,  (nempe  Yeneris)  est  mortua.  Plurimum  gestiit 
Thomas,  quod  appropinquanti  sabbato  efferenda  sit. 

Horner  quidam  Johannulus  in  angulo  sedebat,  artocreas 
quasdam  deglutiens.  Inseruit  pollices,  pruna  manu  evellens, 
et  magna  voce  exclamavit,  "  Dii  boni,  quam  bonus  puer  fio  I" 

Diddle-diddle-dumkins !  meus  unicus  filius  Johannas  cubi- 
tum  ivit,  integris  braccis,  caliga  una  tantum,  indutus  — 
Diddle-diddle,  &c.  Da  Capo. 

Hie  adsum  saltans  Joannula.  Cum  nemo  adsit  mihi, 
semper  resto  sola. 

In  his  nugis  carem  diem  consume,  dum  invigilo  vale- 
tudini  carioris  nostrse  Emma6,  quse  apud  nos  jamdudum 
aegrotat.  Salvere  vos  jubet  mecum  Maria  mea,  ipsa 
Integra  valetudine. 

ELIA. 

Ah  agro  Enfeldiense  datum,  Aprilis  nescio  quibus  Ca- 
lendis — 

Davus  sum,  non  calendarius. 

P.  S.     Perdjta  in  toto  est  Billa  Reformatura. 


FRAGMENTS  FROM  C.  LLOYD'S  LETTERS. 


MY  son  is  gone  in  spite  of  my  haste ;  therefore, 
like  the  good  preachers  among  Friends,  who,  when  their 
subject  has  carried  them  from  themselves,  and  they  have 
got  into  a  tone,  often  stop,  and,  suddenly  recollecting 
themselves,  drop  their  tone  —  so  will  I  pause  in  my  celerity 
and  bad  writing,  which,  to  the  eye,  is  worse  than  a  tone 
to  the  ear.  Indeed,  so  convinced  am  I  that  a  tone  is  the 
natural  consequence  of  impassioned  expression,  that,  pro- 
vided they  do  not  absolutely  whine,  I  like  the  chaunt  of 
the  Friends  far  better  than  a  more  cold  and  intellectual 
modulation  of  the  voice.  Farewell,  my  dear  Friend. 


I  HAVE  not  read  your  last  poems*  so  much  as  .1 
could  wish.  I  was  visited,  while  in  London,  with  a  very 
dreadful  illness,  and  since  my  return  it  has  been  borrowed 
till  I  am  quite  impatient  at  its  absence;  and  I  called  the 
other  day  on  one  of  the  borrowers  to  solicit  its  return.  I 

*  Napoleon,  &c. 
16*  (185) 


186  FRAGMENTS    OP     LETTERS. 

should  like  to  converse  with  you  about  it  viva  voce.  I 
must  say  I  do  not  like  moral  sentiments  about  conquerors. 
I  could  write,  think,  and  read  religiously  about  them ;  but 
while  men  must  have  passions,  and  while  I  think  ambition 
one  of  the  noblest,  (mind,  humanly,  and  not  religiously 
speaking,)  I  must  say  that  I  think  the  common  sentiments 
against  war,  aggrandizement,  &c.,  fall  rather  flat.  My  taste 
would  rather  lead  me  to  panegyrize  them  imaginatively, 
and  then  to  condemn  them  religiously.  I  am  rather  of  the 
opinion  of  an  accomplished  female  who  once  told  me  "  she 
liked  good  fat  passions." 


I  HAD  a  very  ample  testimony  from  C.  Lamb  to 
the  character  of  my  last  little  volume.  I  will  transcribe 
to  you  what  he  says,  as  it  is  but  a  note,  and  his  manner  is 
always  so  original,  that  I  am  sure  the  introduction  of  the 
merest  trifle  from  his  pen  will  well  compensate  for  the  ab- 
sence of  any  thing  of  mine :  —  "  Your  lines  are  not  to  be 
understood  reading  on  one  leg.  They  are  sinuous*  and 
to  be  won  with  wrestling.  I  assure  you  in  sincerity  that 
nothing  you  have  done  has  given  me  greater  satisfaction. 
Your  obscurity,  when  you  are  dark,  which  is  seldom,  is 
that  of  too  much  meaning,  not  the  painful  obscurity  which 
no  toil  of  the  reader  can  dissipate;  not  the  dead  vacuum 
and  floundering  place  in  which  imagination  finds  no  foot- 
ing; it  is  not  the  dimness  of  positive  darkness,  but  of  dis- 
tance; and  he  that  reads  and  not  discerns  must  get  a 
better  pair  of  spectacles.  I  admire  every  piece  in  the 

*  So  in  orig. 


FROM     C.     LLOYD.  187 

collection ;  I  cannot  say  the  first  is  best ;  when  1  do  so, 
the  last  read  rises  up  in  judgment.  To  your  Mother  —  to 
your  Sister  —  is  Mary  dead?  —  they  are  all  weighty  with 
thought  and  tender  with  sentiment.  Your  poetry  is  like 
no  other :  —  those  cursed  Dryads  and  Pagan  trumperies  of 
modern  verse  have  put  me  out  of  conceit  of  the  very  name 
poetry.  Your  verses  are  as  good  and  as  wholesome  as 
prose;  and  I  have  made  a  sad  blunder  if  I  do  not  leave 
you  with  an  impression  that  your  present  is  rarely  valued." 


nth  Nov.,  1822. 

IT  seems  to  me  that  it  is  impossible  that  a  person 
should  long  together  write  with  any  interest,  if  no  one  is 
interested  in  his  compositions.  For  myself,  I  frankly 
avow  I  never  do  write  from  any  distant  consideration  of 
fame,  or  of  establishing  a  literary  character,  but  solely 
when  the  difficulty  would  rather  be  not  to  write  than  to 
write.  In  this  respect  I  am  literally  a  Quaker  poet.  But 
then,  as  I  grow  older,  and  as  the  fervours  of  my  imagina- 
tion abate,  I  doubt  how  far  fits  of  inspiration  would  come 
on,  if  no  one  noticed  their  fruits.  I  associate  with  no  one 
here  out  of  my  own  family;  though  I  am  rich  enough  to 
live  without  a  profession,  I  am  not  to  indulge  in  any  love 
of  variety,  in  travelling,  &c.,  and  I  really  feel  that  my 
authorship  is  the  sole  source  of  interest  out  of  myself,  or  of 
sympathies  with  my  fellow-creatures,  that  remains  to  me. 
If  I  were  not  to  write  a  word  more,  I  have  matter  enough 
by  me  to  make  eight  or  ten  volumes.  What  interest 


188  FRAGMENTS     OF     LETTERS. 

could  there  be  in  adding  to  this  dead  stock,  if  from  time  to 
time  some  of  it  were  not  embarked  on  a  voyage  of  adven- 
ture? At  least,  so  I  feel;  and  feeling  so,  and  finding 
here  no  owe,  not  owe,  not  even  my  wife,  who  seems  to  com- 
prehend this  feeling,  (for  to  say  the  truth  of  her,  she  has  not 
that  average  leaven  of  vanity  which,  without  authorizing 
you  to  call  a  character  vain,  makes  her  to  sympathize  with 
the  cravings  after  sympathy  in  others,)  I  was  the  more 
gratified  that  you  so  completely  seemed  to  enter  into,  and 
to  understand,  my  case. 


INTRODUCTORY  Sonnet  to  the  Supreme  Being, 
which  I  had  some  intention  of  placing  before  the  poems 
which  I  am  now  publishing,  but  which  I  have  omitted  — 
omitted,  because  I  thought  that  the  theme  of  this  Sonnet 
arrogated  too  much  for  my  poems.  I  have  now  simply 
dedicated  them  in  a  Sonnet  to  my  Father. 


O  Thou,  who  when  thou  mad'st  the  heart  of  man, 

Implanted'st  there,  as  paramount  to  all, 
Immortal  Conscience  ;  do  Thou  deign  to  scan 

With  favouring  eye  these  lays,  which  would  recall 
Man  to  his  due  allegiance.  —  Nothing  can 

Thrive  without  Thee ;  hence,  at  Thy  throne  I  fall, 
And  Thee  implore  to  go  forth  in  the  van 

Of  these  my  numbers,  Lord  of  great  and  small ! 
Bless  Thou  these  lays,  and,  with  a  reverent  voice, 

Next  to  Thyself  would  I  my  father  place, 


FROM     SIR    WALTER     SCOTT.  189 

Close  at  thy  threshold ;  true  to  his  youth's  choice, 
His  deeds  with  conscience  ever  have  kept  pace. 

Great  Father,  bid  my  earthly  sire  rejoice, 

A  white-robed  Christian  in  thy  safe  embrace.* 


[The  following  little  note  from  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  refers  to  some 
curious  old  MS.  relating  to  Scottish  History,  lent  to  Sir  Walter 
for  his  perusal,  through  Mr.  Barton.] 


MY  DEAR  SIR, 

I  HAVE  been  lazy  in  sending  you  the  two  tran- 
scripts. In  calling  back  the  days  of  my  youth,  I  was 
surprised  into  confessing  what  I  might  have  as  well  kept 
to  myself,  that  I  had  been  guilty  of  sending  persons  a  bat- 
hunting  to  see  the  ruins  of  Melrose  by  moonlight,  which 
I  never  saw  myself.  The  fact  is  rather  curious,  for  as  I 
have  often  slept  nights  at  Melrose,  (when  I  did  not  reside 
so  near  the  place,)  it  is  singular  that  I  have  not  seen  it  by 
moonlight  on  some  chance  occasion.  However,  it  so 
happens  that  I  never  did,  and  must  (unless  I  get  cold  by 
going  on  purpose)  be  contented  with  supposing  that  these 
ruins  look  very  like  other  Gothic  buildings  which  I  have 
seen  by  the  wan  light  of  the  moon. 

I  was  never  more  rejoiced  in  my  life  than  by  the  safe 

*  The  Editor  cannot  hear  that  this  noble  Sonnet  is  to  be  found  in 
any  of  C.  Lloyd's  published  volumes.  It  is  surely  too  good  to  be 
lost ;  and  that  must  be  the  excuse  for  printing  it  here. 


190  LETTERS. 

arrival  of  the  curious  papers.  The  naming  of  the  regent 
Morton,  instead  of  Murray,  in  the  transcript,  was  a  gross 
blunder  of  the  transcriber,  who  had  been  dreaming  of  these 
two  celebrated  persons  till  he  confused  them  in  his  noddle. 

I  shall  despatch  this  by  a  capable  frank,  having  only  to 
apologize  for  its  length  of  arrival  by  informing  you  I  have 
been   absent  in  Dumfries-shire  for  some  time,  waiting  on 
my  young  chief,  like  a  faithful  clansman.     I  am  always 
Most  faithfully  yours, 

WALTER  SCOTT. 

4th  October. 
Abbotsford.     1824. 


Mr.  Barton  had  been  requested  by  a  friend  to  ask  Sir 
Walter  Scott  to  copy  for  her,  by  way  of  Autograph,  the 
well-known  description  of  Melrose  Abbey  by  moonlight: 
the  petition  was  good-naturedly  granted ;  but  instead  of  the 
usual  ending, 

"  Then  go  —  but  go  alone  the  while  — 
Then  view  St.  David's  ruin'd  pile ; 
And,  home  returning,  soothly  swear 
Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair !" 

the  poet  had  penned  this  amusing  variation, 

Then  go  —  and  meditate  with  awe 
On  scenes  the  author  never  saw, 
Who  never  wander'd  by  the  moon 
To  see  what  could  be  seen  by  noon. 


POEMS. 


(191) 


POEMS. 


SONNET. 

NOT  in  the  shades  of  Academic  bowers, 

Nor  yet  in  classic  haunts,  where  every  breeze 
Wakes  with  its  whispers  music  among  trees, 

And  breathes  the  fragrance  of  unnumber'd  flowers, 

Has  it  been  mine  to  nurse  my  minstrel  powers. 
Nor  have  I,  lull'd  in  literary  ease, 
Dreamt  of  ascending,  even  by  slow  degrees, 

The  glittering  steep  where  Fame's  proud  temple  towers. 

Yet  have  I  been  at  times  a  listener 

To  them  whose  hallow'd  harps  are  now  suspended 

In  silence !  and  have  ventured  to  prefer 

A  prayer  in  which  both  hope  and  fear  were  blended, 

That  I  might  rank  their  fellow-worshipper 
In  the  esteem  of  some,  when  life  is  ended. 
17  (193) 


194  POEMS. 


GREAT  BEALINGS  CHURCHYARD. 


A   SUMMER   EVENING. 

IT  is  not  only  while  we  look  upon 

A  lovely  landscape,  that  its  beauties  please; 

In  distant  days,  when  we  afar  are  gone 
From  such,  in  fancy's  idle  reveries, 
Or  moods  of  mind  which  memory  loves  to  seize, 

It  comes  in  living  beauty,  fresh  as  when 
We  first  beheld  it:  valley,  hill,  or  trees 

Overshadowing  unseen  brooks;  or  outstretched  fen 

"With  cattle  sprinkled  o'er,  exist,  and  charm  again. 

Such  pictures  silently  and  sweetly  glide 

Before  my  "mind's  eye;"  and  I  welcome  them 

The  more,  because  their  presence  has  supplied 
A  joy  as  pure  and  stainless  as  the  gem 
That  morning  finds  on  blossom,  leaf,  or  stem 

Of  the  fair  garden's  queen,  the  lovely  Rose, 
Ere  breeze,  or  sunbeam,  from  her  diadem, 

Have  stol'n  one  brilliant,  and  around  she  throws 

Her  perfumes  o'er  the  spot  that  with  her  beauty  glows. 


POEMS.  195 

Bear  witness  many  a  loved  and  lovely  scene, 

Which  I  no  more  may  visit;   are  ye  not 
Thus  still  my  own?     Thy  groves  of  shady  green, 

Sweet  Gosfield!   or  thou,  wild,  romantic  spot! 

Where,  by  grey  craggy  cliff,  and  lonely  grot, 
The  shallow  Dove  rolls  o'er  his  rocky  bed: 

Ye  still  remain  as  fresh,  and  unforgot, 
As  if  but  yesterday  mine  eyes  had  fed 
Upon  your  charms ;  and  yet  months,  years,  since  then  have 
sped 

Their  silent  course.     And  thus  it  ought  to  be, 
Should  I  sojourn  far  hence  in  distant  years, 

Thou  lovely  dwelling  of  the  dead !   with  thee : 
For  there  is  much  about  thee  that  endears 
Thy  peaceful  landscape ;  much  the  heart  reveres, 

Much  that  it  loves,  and  all  it  could  desire 
In  Meditation's  haunt,  when  hopes  and  fears 

Have  been  too  busy,  and  we  would  retire 

E'en  from  ourselves  awhile,  yet  of  ourselves  inquire. 

Then  art  thou  such  a  spot  as  man  might  choose 
For  still  communion :   all  around  is  sweet, 

And  calm,  and  soothing ;  when  the  light  breeze  woos 
The  lofty  limes  that  shadow  thy  retreat, 
Whose  interlacing  branches,  as  they  meet, 

O'ertop,  and  almost  hide  the  edifice 

They  beautify;   no  sound,  except  the  bleat 

Of  innocent  lambs,  or  notes  which  speak  the  bliss 

Of  happy  birds  unseen.     What  could  a  hermit  miss  ? 


196  POEMS. 

"Light  thickens;"  and  the  moon  advances;  slow 
Through  fleecy  clouds  with  majesty  she  wheels; 

Yon  tower's  indented  outline,  tombstones  low 
And  mossy  grey,  her  silver  light  reveals: 
Now  quivering  through  the  lime-tree  foliage  steals ; 

And  now  each  humble,  narrow,  nameless  bed, 
Whose  grassy  hillock  not  in  vain  appeals 

To  eyes  that  pass  by  epitaphs  unread, 

Rise  to  the  view.     How  still  the  dwelling  of  the  dead ! 


BEALINGS    CHURCHYARD. 

DECEMBER   19,   1835. 

TO   THE   MEMORY   OF   MRS.  M . 

WINTER'S  stern  winds  sweep  round 
The  sepulchre  where  thy  cold  reliques  lie; 

But  thou  hear'st  not  their  sound 
As  through  the  lofty  leafless  limes  they  sigh. 

While  we  who  went  to-day, 
With  thoughts  too  deep  for  tears,  unto  thy  worth 

Our  last  sad  debt  to  pay, 
Think  but  of  thee  beside  the  blazing  hearth. 


POEMS.  197 

And  now,  with  thankful  heart 
Let  us  thy  cherished  memory  enshrine; 

And,  if  our  tears  must  start, 
Let  them  be  brighten' d  by  a  hope  divine. 

Rest  in  thy  quiet  cell ! 
Till  the  last  trumpet  shall  its  silence  burst; 

When  at  that  quickening  spell 
The  dead  in  Christ  shall  joyfully  rise  first. 


TO  FRIENDS 
GOING   TO    THE   SEA-SIDE. 

SINCE  Summer  invites  you  to  visit  once  more 
The  haunts  that  you  love  upon  Ocean's  cool  shore, 
Where  billows  are  foaming  and  breezes  are  free, 
Accept  at  our  parting  a  farewell  from  me. 

My  fancy  can  picture  the  pleasures  in  view, 
Because  I  so  often  have  shared  them  with  you, 
But  unable  this  season  to  taste  them  again, 
I  must  feast  on  the  pleasure  that  flows  from  my  pen. 
17* 


198  POEMS. 

The  ramble  at  morning  when  morning  awakes, 
And  the  sun  through  the  haze  like  a  beacon-fire  breaks, 
Illuming  to  sea-ward  the  billows'  white  foam, 
And  tempting  the  loiterer  ere  breakfast  to  roam, 

And  then  after  breakfast,  when  all  are  got  out, 
The  saunter,  the  lounge,  and  the  looking  about ; 
The  search  after  shells,  and  the  eye  glancing  bright, 
If  cornelian  or  amber  should  come  into  sight. 

And,  sweetest  of  all,  the  last  ramble  at  eve, 
When  the  splendours  of  daylight  are  taking  their  leave ; 
When  the  sun's  setting  rays,  with  a  tremulous  motion, 
Are  reflected  afar  on  the  bosom  of  ocean. 

Oh  !  pleasures  there  are  which  the  pen  cannot  paint, 
And  feelings  to  which  all  expression  is  faint ; 
And  such  to  the  bosom  at  sun-set  are  known, 
As  we  muse  by  the  murmuring  billows  alone. 


POEMS 


TO  J.  W. 

THOU  hast  roam'd  by  Deben's  side, 

Seen  the  ebb  and  flow 
Of  its  radiant,  rippling  tide 

Daily  come  and  go. 

Thou  hast  drawn  the  balmy  air, 

Breathed  the  influence 
Of  the  breezes  wandering  there, 

Gather' d  health  from  thence. 

Thou  hast  sojourn' d  too  awhile 

With  kind  hearts  around; 
In  their  frank  and  cordial  smile 

Friendly  welcome  found. 

Thou  hast  shared  their  sea-side  hours, 

And  their  country  walk; 
With  them  in  their  garden  bowers 

Held  familiar  talk. 

Now  thy  busier  lot  is  cast 

In  the  world  to  be, 
y,  Let  the  memory  of  the  past 
Still  abide  with  thee. 

, 


199 


200  POEMS. 


Give  the  world  its  rightful  due 

Not  one  atom  more; 
Keep  unworldly  thoughts  and  true 

In  thy  bosom's  core! 

Be  such  thoughts  and  feelings  high 

Still  thy  better  part; 
The  world  shall  never  cheat  thine  eye, 

Or  paralyse  thy  heart. 


TWO    SONNETS. 
I. 

GUIDO  FAWKES. 

THE  city  is  alive  !  through  all  her  streets 

Is  heard  the  sound  of  trump  or  beat  of  drum, 
The  signal  of  the -sentinels,  or  hum 

Deep  but  not  loud,  as  rumour's  tongue  repeats 

Tidings  of  terror  unto  all  she  meets  : 

While  thousands,  wrapt  in  expectation  dumb, 
Are  waiting — till  from  dungeon  deep  shall  come 

The  desperate  agent  in  such  daring  feats. 


POEMS.  201 

He  comes !  each  straining  eye,  with  gazing  dim, 
On  him  is  riveted;  his  fearful  name 
Low,  broken  murmurs  only  may  proclaim ; 
Yet  every  glance,  instinctive,  turns  to  him, 
Tracing  each  feature,  scanning  every  limb, 
As'  if  his  deed  had  won  immortal  fame. 


II. 
OLD    GUY. 

IT  is  a  bright  but  cold  November  day; 
And  in  the  centre  of  the  village  green 
A  troop  of  dirty  ragged  boys  are  seen 

In  poor  and  mean  processional  display. 

If  vulgar  Farce  and  Famine  could  be  gay, 
One  might  conceive  the  spectacle  had  been 
Plotted  and  plann'd  that  hopeful  pair  between, 

So  grim  and  gaunt  its  actors  and  array. 

How  are  the  mighty  fallen !  Is  this  the  dread 
And  fearless  Gruido;  by  each  urchin's  cry 
Hail'd  but  in  sport,  or  hooted  as  "Old  Guy," 

With  whiten' d  face  begrimed  with  dirty  red, 

In  ribald  mockery  to  the  bonfire  led  ? 
Such  is  the  fame  that  ends  in  infamy! 


202  POEMS. 


NOT  ours  the  vows  of  such  as  plight 

Their  troth  in  sunny  weather, 
While  leaves  are  green,  and  skies  are  bright, 

To  walk  on  flowers  together. 

But  we  have  loved  as  those  who  tread 

The  thorny  path  of  sorrow, 
With  clouds  above,  and  cause  to  dread 

Yet  deeper  gloom  to-morrow. 

That  thorny  path,  those  stormy  skies, 

Have  drawn  our  spirits  nearer; 
And  rendered  us,  by  sorrow's  ties, 

Each  to  the  other  dearer. 

Love,  born  in  hours  of  joy  and  mirth, 
With  mirth  arid  joy  may  perish; 

That  to  which  darker  hours  gave  birth 
Still  more  and  more  we  cherish. 

It  looks  beyond  the  clouds  of  time, 
And  through  death's  shadowy  portal; 

Made  by  adversity  sublime, 
By  faith  and  hope  immortal. 


POEMS.  203 


ORFORD    CASTLE. 


BEACON  for  barks  that  navigate  the  stream 

Of  Ore  or  Aid,  or  breast  the  ocean  spray: 

Landmark  for  inland  travellers  far  away 
O'er  heath  and  sheep-walk  —  as  the  morning  beam 
Or  the  declining  sunset's  mellower  gleam 

Lights  up  thy  weather-beaten  turrets  grey; 

Still  dost  thou  bear  thee  bravely  in  decay 
As  if  thy  by-gone  glory  were  no  dream ! 
Yea,  now  with  lingering  grandeur  thou  look'st  down 

From  thy  once  fortified,  embattled  hill, 

As  if  thine  ancient  office  to  fulfil; 
And  though  thy  keep  be  but  the  ruin'd  crown 
Of  Orford's  desolate  and  dwindled  town, 

Seem'st  to  assert  thy  sovereign  honour  still. 


204  POEMS. 


THE 


POOL    OF    BETHESDA. 


AROUND  Bethesda's  healing  wave, 
Waiting  to  hear  the  rustling  wing 

Which  spoke  the  angel  nigh  who  gave 
Its  virtue  to  that  holy  spring, 

With  patience,  and  with  hope  endued, 

Were  seen  the  gathered  multitude. 

Among  them  there  was  one,  whose  eye 
Had  often  seen  the  waters  stirr'd; 

Whose  heart  had  often  heaved  the  sigh, 
The  bitter  sigh  of  hope  deferred; 

Beholding,  while  he  suffer'd  on, 

The  healing  virtue  given  —  and  gone 

No  power  had  he;  no  friendly  aid 
To  him  its  timely  succour  brought; 

But,  while  his  coming  he  delayed, 
m Another  won  the  boon  he  sought; 

Until  the  Saviour's  love  was  shown, 

Which  heal'd  him  by  a  word  alone! 


POEMS.  205 

Had  they  who  wateh'd  and  waited  there 
Been  conscious  who  was  passing  by, 

With  what  unceasing,  anxious  care 

Would  they  have  sought  his  pitying  eye; 

And  craved,  with  fervency  of  soul, 

His  power  Divine  to  make  them  whole! 


But  habit  and  tradition  sway'd 

Their  minds  to  trust  to  sense  alone; 

They  only  hoped  the  angel's  aid; 

While  in  their  presence  stood,  unknown, 

A  greater,  mightier  far  than  he, 

With  power  from  every  pain  to  free. 


Bethesda's  pool  has  lost  its  power! 

No  angel,  by  his  glad  descent 
Dispenses  that  diviner  dower 

Which  with  its  healing  waters  went; 
But  He,  whose  word  surpassed  its  wave, 
Is  still  omnipotent  to  save. 

Saviour !   thy  love  is  still  the  same 
As  when  that  healing  word  was  spoke ; 

Still  in  thine  all-redeeming  name 

Dwells  power  to  burst  the  strongest  yoke ! 

0 !   be  that  power,  that  love  displayed, 

Help  those  whom  thou  alone  canst  aid! 

18 


206  POEMS. 


A  FULL-BLOWN    ROSE. 


A  FULL-BLOWN  rose,  in  beauty's  pride, 
By  chance  my  wand'ring  eye  descried ; 
Its  dewy  fragrance,  scattered  wide, 
Perfumed  the  gales  of  morning. 

When  evening  sunbeams  tinged  the  sky, 
I  hastened  forth,  again  to  spy 
The  charms  which  struck  my  roving  eye 
So  early  in  the  morning. 

But  ah !   its  beauties  all  were  flown ! 
And  all  its  humid  fragrance  gone ! 
All  that  the  sun  had  glanced  upon, 
So  lovely  in  the  morning. 

Withered  by  the  scorching  heat, 
It  lay  in  fragments  at  my  feet, 
No  more  my  happy  sight  to  greet 
On  any  future  morning. 

So  short,  so  frail  is  beauty's  reign  1 
Who  can  the  pensive  sigh  restrain? 
The  longest  date  its  charms  can  gain 
Is  but  a  summer's  morning! 


POEMS.  207 


TO    LADY    PEEL, 

WITH  A   COPY  OF 
MISS  BARTON'S  "SCRIPTURE  NARRATIVE." 

INSCRIBING  these  small  tomes  to  thee, 
Lady,  admits  at  least  this  plea, 

(Nor  do  I  need  another,) 
That  in  thy  character  I  trace 
The  matron  virtues  which  should  grace 

An  English  wife  and  mother. 

If  such,  and  those  whom  most  they  love 
Our  humble  labours  but  approve, 

No  higher  compensation 
Could  fall  within  the  narrow  scope 
Of  our  most  cherish7  d  wish  and  hope 

To  serve  our  generation. 


208  POEMS. 


SONNET. 
ON  TRUE  WORSHIP. 

THE  patriarch  worshipped  leaning  on  his  staff ! 
And  well,  methinks,  it  were,  if  such  our  creed 
That  we,  in  every  hour  of  truest -need, 

From  the  same  hidden  fount  could  inly  quaff : 

We  trust  in  outward  aids  too  much  by  half ! 
Could  we  within  on  "  living  bread  "  but  feed, 
And  drink  of  living  streams,  our  souls  would  heed 

All  hindering  helps  but  as  the  husk  and  chaff. 
Then  every  day  were  holy  !  every  hour 

Each  heart's  true  homage  might  ascend  on  high, 

Ascribing  to  the  Eternal  Majesty, 

And  to  the  Lamb,  thanksgiving,  glory,  power, 
Now  and  for  ever !  till  the  ample  dower 

Of  earth's  full  praise  with  that  of  heaven  should  vie. 


POEMS.  209 


TO    MY    DAUGHTER. 


SWEET  pledge  of  joys  departed !  as  I  lay 

Wrapt  in  deep  slumber,  I  beheld  thee  led 

By  thy  angelic  mother,  long  since  dead — 
Methought  upon  her  face  such  smiles  did  play 
As  gild  the  summer  morning.     A  bright  ray 

Of  lambent  glory  streamed  around  her  head. 

I  gazed  in  rapture ;  love  had  banish'd  dread, 
Even  as  light  the  darkness  drives  away. 

Silent  awhile  ye  stood  —  I  could  not  move, 
Such  sweet  delight  my  senses  did  o'erpower; 

When,  in  mild  accents  of  celestial  love, 
Thy  guardian  spoke  —  "  Cherish  this  opening  flower 
With  holy  love ;  that  so  the  future  hour 

Shall  re-unite  our  souls  in  bliss  above." 

[1811.] 


18* 


210  POEMS. 

TEARS. 

"  JESUS  WEPT."    JOHN  xi.  35. 

NOT  worthless  are  the  tears 
When  pure  their  fountain-head, 

Which  human  hopes  and  fears 
Compel  us  oft  to  shed. 

In  grief  or  joy  they  tell 

Far  more  than  words  can  teach; 

Their  silence  hath  a  spell 
Beyond  the  power  of  speech. 

In  joy,  though  bright  and  brief, 
Its  essence  they  make  known; 

And  how  they  soften  grief 
The  mourner's  heart  will  own. 

And  tears  once  fill'd  His  eye, 
Beside  a  mortal's  grave, 

Who  left  his  throne  on  high, 
The  lost  to  seek  and  save. 

And  fresh  from  age  to  age 
Their  memory  shall  be  kept; 

While  man  shall  bless  the  page 
Which  tells  that  JESUS  wept! 


POEMS.  211 


IZAAK    WALTON. 

CHEERFUL  old  man  !  whose  pleasant  hours  were  spent 
Where  Lea's  still  waters  through  their  sedges  glide ; 

Or  on  the  fairer  banks  of  peaceful  Trent, 
Or  Dove  hemm'd  in  by  rocks  on  either  side : 

Thy  book  is  redolent  of  fields  and  flowers, 

Of  freshly  flowing  streams  and  honey-suckle  bowers. 

Although  I  reck  not  of  the  rod  and  line, 
Thou  needest  no  such  brotherhood  to  give 

Charm  to  thy  artless  pages  —  they  shall  shine, 
And  thou  depicted  in  them,  long  shalt  live 

For  many  a  one  to  whom  thy  craft  may  be 

A  thing  unknown,  ev'n  as  it  is  to  me. 

Thy  love  of  nature,  quiet  contemplation, 

In  meadows  where  the  world  was  left  behind ; 

Still  seeking  with  a  blameless  recreation 
In  troubled  times  to  keep  a  quiet  mind ; 

This,  with  thy  simple  utterance,  imparts 

A  pleasure  ever  new  to  musing  hearts. 

And  thou  hast  deeper  feelings  to  revere, 
Drawn  from  a  fountain  even  more  divine, 

That  blend  thine  own  with  memories  as  dear, 

With  names  our  hearts  with  gratitude  enshrine; — 

Holy  George  Herbert,  Wotton,  Ken,  and  Donne, 

The  pious  Hooker,  Cranmer,  Sanderson. 


212  POEMS. 


A  CHILD'S  MORNING  HYMN. 


ONCE  more  the  light  of  day  I  see; 

Lord,  with  it  let  me  raise 
My  heart  and  voice  in  song  to  Thee 

Of  gratitude  and  praise. 

The  "busy  bee"  ere  this  hath  gone 
O'er  many  a  bud  and  bell; 

From  flower  to  flower  is  humming  on, 
To  store  its  waxen  cell. 

0  may  I  like  the  bee  still  strive 

Each  moment  to  employ, 
And  store  my  mind,  that  richer  hive, 

With  sweets  that  cannot  cloy. 

The  skylark  from  its  lowly  nest 

Hath  soar'd  into  the  sky, 
And  by  its  joyous  song  express'd 

Unconscious  praise  on  high. 

My  feeble  voice  and  faltering  tone 

No  tuneful  tribute  bring; 
But  Thou  canst  in  my  heart  make  known 

What  bird  can  never  sing. 


POEMS.  213 

Instruct  me,  then,  to  lift  my  heart 

To  Thee  in  praise  and  prayer; 
And  love  and  gratitude  impart 

For  every  good  I  share : 

For  all  the  gifts  Thy  bounty  sends, 

For  which  so  many  pine; 
For  food  and  clothing,  home  and  friends, 

Since  all  these  boons  are  Thine. 

Thus  let  me,  Lord,  confess  the  debt 

I  owe  Thee  day  by  day; 
Nor  e'er  at  night  or  morn  forget, 

To  Thee,  0  God,  to  pray! 


A  CHILD'S  EVENING  HYMN. 

BEFORE  I  close  my  eyes  in  sleep, 
Lord,  hear  my  evening  prayer; 

And  deign  a  helpless  child  to  keep 
With  Thy  protecting  care. 

Though  young  in  years,  I  have  been  taught 

Thy  name  to  love  and  fear; 
Of  Thee  to  think  with  solemn  thought, 

Thy  goodness  to  revere. 


214  POEMS. 

That  goodness  gives  each  simple  flower 

Its  scent  and  beauty  too, 
And  feeds  it  in  night's  darkest  hour 

With  heaven's  refreshing  dew. 

Nor  will  Thy  mercy  less  delight 

The  infant's  Grod  to  be, 
Who  through  the  darkness  of  the  night 

For  safety  trusts  to  Thee. 

The  little  birds  that  sing  all  day 

In  many  a  leafy  wood, 
By  Thee  are  clothed  in  plumage  gay, 

By  Thee  supplied  with  food. 

And  when  at  night  they  cease  to  sing, 

By  Thee  protected  still, 
Their  young  ones  sleep  beneath  their  wing, 

Secure  from  every  ill. 

Thus  may'st  Thou  guard  with  gracious  arm 

The  couch  whereon  I  lie, 
And  keep  a  child  from  every  harm 

By  Thy  all-watchful  eye. 

For  night  and  day  to  Thee  are  one, 

The  helpless  are  Thy  care. 
And  for  the  sake  of  Thy  dear  Son, 

Thou  hear'st  an  infant's  prayer. 


POEMS.  215 


BISHOP    HUBERT. 


'Tis  the  hour  of  even  now, 
And  with  meditative  brow, 
Seeking  truths  as  yet  unknown, 
Bishop  Hubert  walks  alone. 

Fain  would  he,  with  earnest  thought, 
Nature's  secret  laws  be  taught; 
Learn  the  destinies  of  man, 
And  creation's  wonders  scan. 

And,  further  yet,  from  these  would  trace 
Hidden  mysteries  of  grace, 
Dive  into  the  deepest  theme, 
Solve  redemption's  glorious  scheme. 

Far  he  has  not  roam'd  before, 
On  the  solitary  shore, 
He  has  found  a  little  child 
By  its  seeming  play  beguiled. 

In  the  drifted  barren  sand 
It  has  scoop'd  with  baby  hand 
Small  recess,  in  which  might  float 
Sportive  fairy's  tiny  boat. 


216  POEMS. 

From  a  hollow  shell  the  while, 
See,  'tis  filling,  with  a  smile, 
Fool  as  shallow  as  may  be 
With  the  waters  of  the  sea. 

Hear  the  smiling  bishop  ask 
"  What  can  mean  such  infant  task  ?  " 
Mark  that  infant's  answer  plain  — 
"'Tis  to  hold  yon  mighty  main." 

"Foolish  infant/'  Hubert  cries, 
"  Open  if  thou  canst,  thine  eyes : 
Can  a  hollow  scoop' d  by  thee 
Hope  to  hold  the  boundless  sea?" 

Soon  that  child,  on  ocean's  brim, 
Opes  its  eyes  and -turns  to  him: 
Well  does  Hubert  read  its  look, 
Glance  of  innocent  rebuke : 

While  a  voice  is  heard  to  say, 
"If  the  pool,  thus  scoop'd  in  play, 
Cannot  hold  the  mighty  sea, 
What  must  thy  researches  be? 

"Canst  thou  hope  to  make  thine  own 
Secrets  known  to  God  alone? 
Can  thy  faculty  confined 
Compass    the  Eternal  Mind?" 

Bishop  Hubert  turns  away  — 
He  has  learnt  enough  to-day. 


POEMS.  217 


THE    MISSIONARY. 


HE  went  not  forth,  as  man  too  oft  hath  done, 
Braving  the  ocean  billows'  wild  uproar, 

In  hopes  to  gather,  ere  life's  sands  were  run, 
Yet  added  heaps  of  mammon's  sordid  ore ; — 
He  went  not  forth  earth's  treasures  to  explore, 

Where  sleeps  in  sunless  depths  the  diamond's  ray ; 
Nor  was  he  urged  by  love  of  classsic  lore, 

His  homage  of  idolatry  to  pay 

Where  ancient  heroes  fought,  or  poets  pour'd  their  lay. 

He  left  not  home  to  cross  the  briny  sea 
With  the  proud  conqueror's  ambitious  aim, 

To  wrong  the  guileless,  to  enslave  the  free, 

And  win  a  blood-stain'd  wreath  of  doubtful  fame, 
By  deeds  unworthy  of  the  Christian's  name ; 

Nor  to  inspect  with  taste's  inquiring  eye 
Temple  and  palace  of  gigantic  frame, 

Or  pyramid  up-soaring  to  the  sky, 

Trophies  of  art's  proud  power  in  ages  long  gone  by. 
19 


218  POEMS. 

Nor  did  his  fancy  nurse  the  gentle  dream 

Of  nature's  fond  enthusiast ;  who,  intense 
In  admiration  of  her  charms,  would  seem 

To  worship  her;  forgetful  of  the  offence 

Given  to  her  great  and  glorious  Maker  thence : 
To  him  the  woodland  scenery's  sylvan  thrall, 

The  sunny  vale,  or  cloud-capt  eminence, 
The  brooklet's  murmur,  or  the  cataract's  fall, 
But  waken'd   thoughts   of  Him   whose  word   had   form'd 
them  all. 

He  went  abroad  —  a  follower  of  the  Lamb, 

To  spread  the  gospel's  message  far  and  wide ; 
In  the  dread  power  of  Him,  the  great  "I  AM/' 

In  the  meek  spirit  of  the  Crucified ; 

With  unction  from  the  Holy  Ghost  supplied, — 
To  war  with  error,  ignorance,  and  sin, 

To  exalt  humility,  to  humble  pride, 
To  still  the  passions'  stormy  strife  within ; 
Through  wisdom  from  above  immortal  souls  to  win. 

To  publish  unto  those  who  sat  in  night, 

And  death's  dark  shadow,  tidings  of  glad  things ; 

How  unto  them  the  gospel's  cheering  light 
"Was  risen,  with  life  and  healing  on  its  wings  j 
How  he,  the  Lord  of  glory,  King  of  kings, 

Their  souls  to  save  from  sin's  enthralling  yoke, 

Had  left  his  throne,  where  harps  of  golden  strings, 

By  seraphs  touch' d,  in  heavenly  music  spoke  j 

And,  coming  down  to  earth,  the  chain  of  Satan  broke. 


POEMS.  219 

How  Christ  for  man  upon  the  cross  had  died, 

And  pour'd  His  blood  to  cleanse  their  guilt  away ; 

That,  plunged  beneath  its  sin-effacing  tide, 
Their  spirits  made  no  more  the  spoiler's  prey, 
Might  stand  before  Him  clothed  in  white  array, 

The  Saviour's  ransom' d  and  redeem' d  among, 
Who  worship  in  his  presence  night  and  day, 

And  join  in  that  "innumerable  throng" 

Whose  voice  is  as  the  voice  of  many  waters  strong. 

Such  was  his  errand.     What  though  he  might  fare 

Year  after  year^,  along  a  foreign  strand, 
A  "  lonely  pilgrim,  as  his  fathers  were  \ " — 

He  trusted  still  his  Master's  guiding  hand, 

And  still  he  felt  his  humble  faith  expand — 
That  He  who  sent  him  forth  would  ever  prove 

A  rock  of  shadow  in  the  weary  land ; 
And  give  him,  in  the  riches  of  his  love, 
To  drink  the  way-side  brook,  and  comfort  from  above. 

/  '" 
Thus  did  he  journey  on  from  day  to  day, 

'Mid  savage  tribes,  a  Missionary  mild, 
Teaching  and  preaching  Jesus,  until  they, 

First  by  his  meek  benevolence  beguiled, 

Then  by  a  mightier  spirit,  undenled 
With  aught  of  human  weakness,  touch'd  and  won, 

Were  to  their  heavenly  Father  reconciled : 
And,  through  his  well-beloved  and  glorious  Son, 
To  them  God's  kingdom  came,  by  them  his  will  was  done. 


220  POEMS. 

Then  through  the  influence  of  redeeming  grace, 
"Whose  might  can  even  human  wildness  tame, 

The  savage  soften'd,  and  the  savage  place 
A  scene  of  blessedness  and  love  became : 
And  there,  where  bloody  rites  and  deeds  of  shame, 

Under  religion's  name,  were  done  before, 

Now,  blessed  change  ! — Jehovah's  holy  name — 

His  Son's — the  Comforter's — along  the  shore 

In  sounds  of  praise  and  prayer  the  wandering  breezes  bore. 

But  what  became  of  him,  that  lonely  one, 

Who  thus  went  forth,  commission'd  from  on  high  ? 
He,  when  he  saw  his  work  of  love  was  done, 

Felt  also  that  his  rest  was  drawing  nigh ; 

And  though  it  woke  perchance  a  transient  sigh 
Of  natural  regret,  to  think  that  he 

Should  far  from  home  and  friends  an  exile  die, — 
Yet  could  he  humbly  pray  on  bended  knee, 
"  Thy  will,  0  God !  not  mine,  accomplish'd  be." 

Beneath  a  palm  tree,  by  the  house  of  prayer, 

Upon  a  bright  and  tranquil  summer  eve, 
He  feebly  sat ;  and  round  him  gather' d  there 

The  little  flock  he  was  so  soon  to  leave : 

With  reverent  affection  did  they  cleave 
About  him — men  and  women,  young  and  old, 

With  artless  sorrow  seem'd  alike  to  grieve 
That  he  who  led  and  kept  them  in  the  fold 
Must  quit  them,  even  for  the  heav'n  of  which  he  told. 


POEMS.  221 

They  sang  a  hymn  of  thanks  and  praise  to  God ; 

And  while  its  echoes  floated  yet  in  air, 
Their  feeble  pastor,  kneeling  on  the  sod, 

For  them,  and  for  himself,  pour'd  forth  in  prayer 

His  wishes,  hopes,  affections,  thanks,  and  care : — 
Rising,  with  grateful  heart  he  look'd  around, 

And  when  he  saw  that  each  and  all  were  there 
To  whom  his  spirit  was  so  strongly  bound, 
His  blessing  he  pronounced,  with  low  and  falt'ring  sound. 

They  bore  him  home  unto  his  lowly  cot, 

And  laid  the  dying  saint  upon  his  bed ; 
No  mark  of  kind  attention  they  forgot 

Toward  him  who  long  their  hungry  souls  had  fed : 

And  when  life's  lingering  spark  at  last  was  fled, 
They  mourn' d  for  him  with  many  a  simple  tear, 

Such  as  for  pious  parent  should  be  shed : 
And  taught  their  children  ever  to  revere 
The  memory  of  one  so  holy  and  so  dear. 

They  buried  him  beneath  the  lofty  palm 

Where  last  in  prayer  his  dying  charge  he  gave ; 

While  through  the  leaves  the  breezes  whisper' d  calm, 
M  ixt  with  the  murmur  of  the  distant  wave : 
And  when,  in  after-years,  the  white  man's  grave, 

With  its  moss'd  stone,  beside  old  Ocean's  brim, 
They  pointed  out  to  strangers,  each  would  crave 

In  broken  speech,  with  eyes  by  tears  made  dim, 

That  as  he  follow'd  Christ,  so  they  might  follow  him. 
19* 


222  POEMS. 


OLD    AGE. 

OLD  age!   thou  art  a  bitter  pill 

For  humankind  to  swallow; 
Fraught  with  full  many  a  present  ill, 

And  fear  of  worse  to  follow. 

And  yet  thou  art  a  medicine  good, 

Not  to  be  bought  for  money; 
Worse  than  the  worst  of  nauseous  food, 

Yet  sweeter  far  than  honey. 

Thy  aches  and  cramps,  thy  weary  groans, 

Infirmities  which  breed  them, 
Might  move  the  very  hearts  of  stones, 

If  stones  had  hearts  to  heed  them. 

But  these  must  come,  of  course,  with  thee, 
And  none  dispute,  or  doubt  them; 

Such  may  be  borne,  and  wisest  he 
Who  pothers  least  about  them. 

Old  age !   be  what  thou  wilt,  thy  reign 

Cannot  endure  for  ever; 
Feebleness,  weariness,  and  pain 

Are  links  that  soon  must  sever ! 

And  if  thy  pains  the  soul  recall 
To  heavenly  truth  and  warning, 

Who  would  regret  the  ruin'd  wall 
That  lets  in  such  a  morning? 


POEMS.  223 


PENN'S  TREATY  WITH  THE  INDIANS. 


THE  only  treaty  framed  in  Christian  love 
Without  a  single  oath;  and  by  that  token 

Recorded  and  approved  in  heaven  above, 
And  in  a  world  of  sin  and  strife  unbroken ! 


DEWS  that  nourish  fairest  flowers, 
Fall  unheard  in  stillest  hours; 

Streams  which  keep  the  meadows  green, 
Often  flow  themselves  unseen. 

Violets  hidden  on  the  ground, 
Throw  their  balmy  odours  round; 

Viewless  in  the  vaulted  sky, 
Larks  pour  forth  their  melody. 

Emblems  these,  which  well  express 

Virtue's  modest  loveliness; 
Unobtrusive  and  unknown, 

Felt  but  in  its  fruits  alone! 


224  POEMS. 


ALDBOROUaH. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  CRABBE. 


How  could  I  tread  this  winding  shore, 

In  sadness,  or  in  glee, 
By  Thee  so  often  paced  of  yore, 

Nor  turn,  in  thought,  to  thee? 

For  here  were  pass'd  thy  early  days, 
With  fortune  waging  strife; 

And  here  thy  muse's  embryo  lays 
First  struggled  into  life. 

Thy  verse  hath  stamp' d  on  all  around 

The  impress  of  its  truth, 
And  render' d  far  and  near  renowned 

"THE  BOROUGH"  of  thy  youth! 

The  self-same  sea  in  foam  may  break 
On  shores  less  tame  or  drear; 

But  were  it  only  for  thy  sake} 
These  to  my  heart  were  dear. 


POEMS.  225 


TO  A  FRIEND, 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  FATHER. 

THOUGH  nature's  feelings  rend  thy  heart, 

Shock' d  by  a  parent's  death; 
Though  friendship  could  not  turn  the  dart 

Which  took  his  vital  breath; 

The  record  of  my  feeble  pen, 

Engraven  on  thy  breast, 
May  welcome  to  thee  once  again 

The  pillow  of  thy  rest. 

Though  quick  the  change,  and  prompt  the  stroke 

That  snapt  the  tender  chain 
Of  life,  it  saved  him  from  the  yoke 

Of  slow  consuming  pain. 

With  much  to  hope  and  nought  to  fear 

Beyond  the  silent  tomb, 
Peaceful  was  once  his  dwelling  here; 

More  peaceful  now  his  home. 


226  POEMS. 

To  him  whose  task  was  daily  done, 
Death  could  be  no  surprise; 

For  well  he  knew  that  life's  last  sun 
Would  with  his  Saviour  rise. 

The  splendour  of  that  promised  morn 
What  numbers  can  set  forth, 

When  robes  of  glory  shall  adorn 
The  majesty  of  worth? 

Still  on  his  manly  face  and  form 
Thy  memory  long  may  dwell, 

And  still  affection's  yearnings  warm 
Thy  wounded  bosom  swell. 

Nature  such  feelings  will  betray, 
And  own  the  tribute  due; 

But  faith  should  wipe  the  tear  away, 
And  inward  peace  renew. 

The  path  a  righteous  sire  has  trod 
Distinctly  points  to  heaven: 

The  grace  and  goodness  of  his  God 
To  thee  are  also  given. 

That  path  observed,  what  rapture  sweet, 

Beyond  my  skill  to  paint, 
Thy  panting  soul  shall  feel  to  greet 

Thy  father  in  the  saint! 


POEMS.  227 


IN  THE  FIRST  LEAF  OF  AN  ALBUM. 

THE  warrior  is  proud  when  the  battle  is  won ; 
The  eagle  is  proud  as  he  soars  to  the  sun } 
The  beauty  is  proud  of  the  conquest  she  gains ; 
And  the  humblest  of  poets  is  proud  of  his  strains : 
Then  forgive  me,  my  friend,  if  some  pride  should  be  mine, 
When  I  fill  the  first  leaf  in  an  Album  of  thine. 

The  miser  is  glad  when  he  adds  to  his  hoard ; 
The  epicure  placed  at  the  sumptuous  board ; 
The  courtier  when  smiled  on ;  but  happier  the  lot 
Of  the  friend  who  though  absent  is  still  unforgot : 
Then  believe  that  a  feeling  of  gladness  is  mine, 
When  I  fill  the  first  page  of  an  Album  of  thine. 

But  my  pride  and  my  pleasure  are  chasten' d  with  fears, 
As  I  look  down  the  vista  of  far  distant  years, 
And  reflect  that  the  progress  of  time  must  ere  long 
Bring  oblivion  to  friendship,  and  silence  to  song : 
Thus  thinking,  what  mingled  emotions  are  mine, 
As  I  fill  the  first  leaf  in  an  Album  of  thine ! 

Yet  idle  and  thankless  it  were  to  allow 
Such  reflections  to  sadden  the  heart  and  the  brow ; 
We  know  that  earth's  pleasures  are  mix'd  with  alloy, 
But  if  virtue  approve  them,  'tis  wise  to  enjoy: 
And  this  brief  enjoyment  at  least  shall  be  mine, 
As  I  write  my  name  first  in  this  Album  of  thine. 


228  POEMS. 


A    STREAM. 

IT  flows  through  flowery  meads, 
Gladdening  the  herds  that  on  its  margin  browse  j 

Its  quiet  bounty  feeds 
The  alders  that  o'ershade  it  with  their  boughs. 

Gently  it  murmurs  by 
The  village  churchyard  with  a  plaintive  tone 

Of  dirge-like  melody, 
For  worth  and  beauty  modest  as  its  own. 

More  gaily  now  it  sweeps 
By  the  small  school-house,  in  the  sunshine  bright, 

And  o'er  the  pebbles  leaps, 
Like  happy  hearts  by  holiday  made  light. 


SABBATH    DAYS. 

MODERNIZED  FROM  VAUGHAN'S  "SILEX  SCINTILLANS." 

TYPES  of  eternal  rest— fair  buds  of  bliss, 

In  heavenly  flowers  expanding  week  by  week ; 

The  next  world's  gladness  imaged  forth  in  this — 
Pays  of  whose  worth  the  Christian's  heart  can  speak. 


POEMS. 

Eternity  in  time  —  the  steps  by  which 

We  climb  to  future  ages  —  lamps  that  light 

Man  through  his  darker  days,  and  thought  enrich, 
Yielding  redemption  for  the  week's  dull  flight. 

Wakeners  of  prayer  in  man  —  his  resting  bowers 

As  on  he  journeys  in  the  narrow  way, 
Where,  Eden-like,  Jehovah's  walking  hours 

Are  waited  for,  as  in  the  cool  of  day. 

Days  fixt  by  G-od  for  intercourse  with  dust, 
To  raise  our  thoughts  and  purify  our  powers ; 

Periods  appointed  to  renew  our  trust — 
A  gleam  of  glory  after  six  days'  showers. 

A  milky  way  marked  out  through  skies  else  drear, 
By  radiant  suns  that  warm  as  well  as  shine : 

A  clue  which  he  who  follows  knows  no  fear, 

Though  briers  and  thorns  around  his  path  may  twine. 

Foretastes  of  heaven  on  earth — pledges  of  joy 
Surpassing  Fancy's  flights  and  Fiction's  story— 

The  preludes  of  a  feast  that  cannot  cloy, 
And  the  bright  out-courts  of  immortal  glory. 


20 


230  POEMS. 


SONNET 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY  HOWITT. 


THE  breath  of  Spring  is  stirring  in  the  wood, 

Whose  budding  boughs  confess  the  genial  gale ; 

And  thrush  and  blackbird  tell  their  tender  tale ; 
The  hawthorn  tree,  that  leafless  long  has  stood, 
Shows  signs  of  blossoming;  the  streamlet's  flood 

Hath  shrunk  into  its  banks,  and  in  each  vale 

The  lowly  violet,  and  the  primrose  pale, 
Have  lured  the  bee  to  seek  his  wonted  food. 
Then  up !  and  to  your  forest  haunts  repair, 

Where  Robin  Hood  once  held  his  revels  gay ; 

Yours  is  the  greensward  smooth,  and  vocal  spray ; 
And  I,  as  on  your  pilgrimage  ye  fare, 
In  all  your  sylvan  luxuries  shall  share 

When  I  peruse  them  in  your  minstrel  lay. 


POEMS.  231 


SONNET. 
TO    THE    SAME. 

WINTER  hath  bound  the  brooks  in  icy  chains ; 
The  bee  that  murmur'd  in  the  cowslip  bell, 
Now  feasts  securely  in  his  honey'd  cell ; 

Silence  is  on  the  woods  and  on  the  plains, 

And  darkening  clouds  and  desolating  rains 

Have  marr'd  your  forest-fountain's  quiet  spell : 
Yet,  though  retired  from  these  awhile  ye  dwell, 

Your  heart's  best  hoard  of  poesy  remains. 

The  sports  of  childhood,  the  exhaustless  store 
Of  home-born  thoughts  and  feelings  dear  to  each, 
Converse,  or  silence  eloquent  as  speech ; 

History's  rich  page,  tradition's  richer  lore 

Of  tale  and  legend  prized  in  days  of  yore ; — 
These,  worthy  of  the  muse,  are  in  your  reach. 


POEMS. 


SONNET. 

IN  MEMORIAL  OP  ELIZABETH  FRY. 

THY  name,  now  writ  in  heaven,  will  live  on  earth, 
So  long  as  human  hearts  are  left  to  prize 
That  sterling  virtue  whose  deep  source  supplies 

Each  Christian  grace,  a  woman's  highest  worth ! 

And  Heaven  forbid  we  e'er  should  dread  a  dearth 
Of  these  in  England ;  where  the  good  and  wise 
Have,  by  their  reverence  of  such  sanctities, 

Honoured  the  country  which  had  given  them  birth. 

True  gospel  preacher  of  that  law  of  love 
By  JESUS  taught ;  nor  for  thyself  would  I 
Indite  this  simple  brief  obituary ! 

May  thy  example  kindred  spirits  move 

To  follow  thee ;  and  thus  themselves  approve 
Number'd  with  them  whose  record  is  on  high  I 


POEMS.  238 


ON  SOME  ILLUSTRATIONS 


OF 


COWPER/S  "RURAL  WALKS." 


WHY  are  these  tamer  landscapes  fraught 
With  charms  whose  meek  appeal 

To  sensibility  and  thought 
The  heart  is  glad  to  feel? 

Cowper,  thy  muse's  magic  skill 
Has  made  them  sacred  ground; 

Thy  gentle  memory  haunts  them  still, 
And  casts  a  spell  around. 

The  hoary  oak,  the  peasant's  nest, 
The  rustic  bridge,  the  grove, 

The  turf  thy  feet  have  often  prest, 
The  temple  and  alcove; 

The  shrubbery,  moss-house,  simple  urn, 

The  elms,  the  lodge,  the  hall, — 
Each  is  thy  witness  in  its  turn, 

Thy  verse  the  charm  of  all. 
20* 


234  POEMS. 

Thy  verse,  no  less  to  nature  true 

Than  to  religion  dear, 
O'er  every  object  sheds  a  hue 

That  long  must  linger  here. 

Amid  these  scenes  the  hours  were  spent 
Of  which  we  reap  the  fruit ; 

And  each  is  now  thy  monument, 
Since  that  sweet  lyre  is  mute. 

"  Here,  like  the  nightingale's,  were  pour'd 

Thy  solitary  lays," 
Which  sought  the  glory  of  the  Lord, 

"Nor  ask'd  for  human  praise." 


THE    WALL-FLOWER. 

DELIGHTFUL  flower,  whose  fair  and  fragrant  bloom 
Tinges  with  beauty  many  a  mouldering  tower, 

Lending  a  grace  to  its  declining  doom 

Beyond  the  splendour  of  its  proudest  hour. 

What  art  thou  like  ?  the  cheerful  smile  of  those 

Whose  eyes  are  dim  with  years,  whose  locks  are  grey ; 

The  tranquil  brightness  of  whose  evening  shows 
They  gave  to  God  the  morning  of  their  day. 


POEMS.  235 


1  BUT  IT  SHALL  COME  TO  PASS,  THAT  AT  EVENING  TIME  IT 
SHALL  BE  LIGHT."    ZECH.  xiv.  7. 


WE  journey  through  a  vale  of  tears, 

By  many  a  cloud  o'ercast; 
And  worldly  cares,  and  worldly  fears, 

G-o  with  us  to  the  last ! 
Not  to  the  last  —  Thy  word  hath  said, 

Could  we  but  read  aright: 
Poor  pilgrim !  lift  in  hope  thy  head  \ 

At  eve  there  shall  be  light. 

Though  earth-born  shadows  now  may  shroud 

Thy  thorny  path  awhile; 
G-od's  blessed  word  can  rend  each  cloud, 

And  bid  the  sunshine  smile: 
Only  believe,  in  living  faith, 

His  love  and  power  Divine, 
And,  ere  life's  sun  shall  set  in  death, 

His  light  shall  round  thee  shine. 

When  tempest-clouds  are  dark  on  high, 

His  bow  of  love  and  peace 
Shines  sweetly  in  the  vaulted  sky, 

Betokening  storms  shall  cease! 
Walk  on  thy  way,  with  hope  unchilFd, 

By  faith,  and  not  by  sight: 
So  shalt  thou  own  his  word  fulfill' d, 

At  eve  it  shall  be  light. 


POEMS. 


WINTER    EVENINGS. 

THE  summer  is  over, 

The  autumn  is  past, 
Dark  clouds  o'er  us  hover, 
Loud  whistles  the  blast; 
But  clouds  cannot  darken,  nor  tempest  destroy 
The  soul's  sweetest  sunshine,  the  heart's  purest  joy. 

The  Bright  fire  is  flinging 

Its  happy  warmth  round: 
The  kettle  too  singing, 

And  blithe  is  its  sound: 
Then  welcome  in  evening,  and  shut  out  the  day, 
And  with  it  its  soul-fretting  troubles  away. 

Our  path  is  no  bright  one, 

From  morning  till  eve; 
Our  task  is  no  light  one, 

Till  day  takes  its  leave : 
But  now  let  us  cheerfully  pause  on  our  way, 
And  be  thankfully  cheerful,  and  blamelessly  gay. 

We'll  turn  to  the  pages 

Of  history's  lore; 
Of  bards  and  of  sages 

The  beauties  explore: 
And  share  o'er  the  records  we  love  to  unroll 
The  "  feast  of  the  reason  and  flow  of  the  soul." 


POEMS.  237 

To  you  who  have  often, 

In  life's  later  years, 
Brought  kindness  to  soften 

Its  cares  and  its  fears; 

To  you,  with  true  feeling,  your  Poet  and  Friend, 
The  joys  you  have  heightened  may  fondly  commend. 


'DESPISE  NOT  THOU  THE  CHASTENING  OF  THE  ALMIGHTY. 
JOB  v.  17. 


THE  sunshine  to  the  flower  may  give 
The  tints  that  charm  the  sight, 

But  scentless  would  that  flow'ret  live 
If  skies  were  always  bright; 

Dark  clouds  and  showers  its  scent  bestow, 

And  purest  joy  is  born  of  woe. 

He  who  each  bitter  cup  rejects, 

No  living  spring  shall  quaff; 
He  whom  Thy  rod  in  love  corrects, 

Shall  lean  upon  Thy  staff: 
Happy,  thrice  happy,  then,  is  he 
Who  knows  his  chast'ning  is  from  Thee. 


238  POEMS. 


ON    SOME    PICTURES. 

THEY  err'd  not  who  relied  for  fame 
On  works  of  such  magnificence; 

Whose  charms,  unchangeably  the  same, 
Surprise  and  ravish  soul  and  sense. 

For  here,  though  long  since  dead,  they  live 
With  power  to  waken  smiles  and  tears; 

And  to  unconscious  canvass  give 

What  lived  and  breathed  in  distant  years 

What  still  shall  captivate,  when  we 
Who  now  with  admiration  gaze, 

Like  those  who  fashioned  them,  shall  be 
The  creatures  of  departed  days. 

Still  shall  that  sleeping  infant's  face, 

Beauty  and  innocence  reveal ; 
That  sainted  mother's  matron  grace 

To  every  mother's  heart  appeal. 

Those  misty  mountains  still  shall  rise, 
As  now  they  do;   those  vales  expand; 

And  still  those  torrents,  trees,  and  skies, 
Tell  of  each  master's  magic  hand. 


POEMS.  239 


As  I  roam'd  on  the  beach,  to  my  memory  rose 
The  bliss  I  had  tasted  in  moments  gone  by ; 

When  my  soul  could  be  soothed  in  a  scene  of  repose, 
And  my  spirit  exult  in  an  unclouded  sky ! 

I  thought  of  the  past ;  and  while  thinking,  thy  name 
Came  uncalled  to  my  lips,  but  no  language  it  found ; 

Yet  my  heart  felt  how  dear  and  how  hallow'd  its  claim  — 
I  could  think,  though  my  tongue  could  not  utter  a  sound. 

The  beginning  and  end  of  our  love  was  before  me, 
And  both  touch'd  a  cord  of  the  tenderest  tone ; 

Thy  spirit,  then  near,  shed  its  influence  o'er  me, 
And  told  me  that  still  thou  wert  truly  mine  own. 

I  thought  at  that  moment  (how  dear  was  the  thought !) 
There  still  was  a  union  that  death  could  not  break ; 

And  if  with  some  sorrow  the  feeling  were  fraught, 
Yet  even  that  sorrow  was  sweet  for  thy  sake. 

Thus  musing  on  thee,  every  object  around 

Seem'd  to  borrow  thy  sweetness  to  make  itself  dear ; 

And  each  murmuring  wave  reach' d  the  shore  with  a  sound 
As  soft  as  the  tones  of  thy  voice  to  mine  ear. 


240  POEMS. 


THE  PHILISTINE  CHAMPION. 

THOUGH  he  of  Gath  no  more 

The  living  God  defy, 
Champions  like  him  of  yore 

Satan  can  now  supply. 

The  champions  he  can  call, 
Though  hid  from  mortal  sight, 

Are  deadlier  in  their  thrall 
Than  that  fierce  giant's  might. 

They  rise  not  in  the  field 
Of  war  with  warlike  mien; 

But  in  the  heart  concealed, 
They  fight  for  him  unseen. 

Lust,  with  its  wanton  eye, 

False  shame,  and  servile  fear; 

Despair,  whose  icy  sigh 

Would  freeze  contrition's  tear;— 

Doubt,  with  its  scornful  jest; 

Pride,  with  its  haughty  brow;— 
These,  lurking  in  the  breast, 

Are  Satan's  champions  now, 


POEMS  241 


Vainly  our  strength  we  boast 
Or  reason's  triumphs  tell, 

Sin's  hydra-headed  host 

Arms  not  our  own  must  quell. 


Be  ours,  then,  those  alone 
God's  word  and  grace  bestow; 

Faith's  simple  sling  and  stone 
Shall  lay  each  giant  low. 


LEISTON  ABBEY  BY  MOONLIGHT. 


IMPOSING  must  have  been  the  sight 

Ere  desolation  found  thee, 
When  morning  breaking  o'er  thee  bright, 

With  new-born  glory  crown' d  thee: 

When,  rising  from  the  neighbouring  deep, 
The  eye  of  day  survey'd  thee; 

Aroused  thine  inmates  from  their  sleep, 
And  in  his  beams  array'd  thee. 

21 


242  POEMS. 

And  not  to  Fancy's  eye  alone 
Thine  earlier  glories  glisten; 

Her  ear  recovers  many  a  tone 
To  which  'tis  sweet  to  listen. 


Methinks  I  hear  the  matin  song 
From  those  proud  arches  pealing; 

Now  in  full  chorus  borne  along, 
Now  into  distance  stealing. 

But  yet  more  beautiful  by  far 

Thy  silent  ruin  sleeping 
In  the  clear  midnight,  with  that  star 

Through  yonder  archway  peeping. 

More  beautiful  that  ivy  fringe 
That  crests  thy  turrets  hoary, 

Touch' d  by  the  moonbeams  with  a  tinge 
As  of  departed  glory. 

More  spirit-stirring  is  the  sound 
Of  night-winds  softly  sighing 

Thy  roofless  walls  and  arches  round, 
And  then  in  silence  dying. 


POEMS.  243 


THE    VALLEY    OF    FERN. 


THERE  is  a  lone  valley,  few  charms  can  it  number, 

Compared  with  the  lovely  glens  north  of  the  Tweed ; 
No  mountains  enclose  it  where  morning  mists  slumber, 

And  it  never  has  echoed  the  shepherd's  soft  reed. 
No  streamlet  of  crystal,  its  rocky  banks  laving, 

Flows  through  it,  delighting  the  ear  and  the  eye ; 
On  its  sides  no  proud  forests,  their  foliage  waving, 

Meet  the  gales  of  the  autumn  or  summer  wind's  sigh ; 
Yet  by  me  it  is  prized,  and  full  dearly  I  love  it, 

And  oft  my  steps  thither  I  pensively  turn; 
It  has  silence  within,  heaven's  proud  arch  above  it, 

And  my  fancy  has  named  it  the  Valley  of  Fern. 


0  deep  the  repose  which  its  calm  recess  giveth, 

And  no  music  can  equal  its  silence  to  me ; 
When  broken,  't  is  only  to  prove  something  liveth, 

By  the  note  of  the  sky-lark,  or  hum  of  the  bee. 
On  its  sides  the  green  fern  to  the  breeze  gently  bending, 

With  a  few  stunted  trees,  meet  the  wandering  eye ; 
Or  the  furze  and  the  broom,  their  bright  blossoms  extending, 

With  the  braken's  soft  verdure  delightfully  vie ; — 


244  POEMS. 

These  are  all  it  can  boast ;  yet,  when  Fancy  is  dreaming, 
Her  visions,  which  poets  can  only  discern, 

Come  crowding  around,  in  unearthly  light  beaming, 
And  invest  with  bright  beauty  the  Valley  of  Fern. 


Sweet  valley,  in  seasons  of  grief  and  dejection, 

I  have  sought  in  thy  bosom  a  shelter  from,  care ; 
And  have  found  in  my  musings  a  bond  of  connexion 

With  thy  landscape  so  peaceful,  and  all  that  was  there : 
In  the  verdure  that  soothed,  in  the  flowers  that  brighten' d, 

In  the  blackbird's  soft  note,  in  the  hum  of  the  bee, 
I  found  something  that  lulPd,  and  insensibly  lighten' d, 

And  felt  grateful  and  tranquil  while  gazing  on  thee. 
Yes,  moments  there  are,  when  mute  nature  is  willing 

To  teach,  would  proud  man  but  be  humble  and  learn ; 
When  her  sights   and  her  sounds  on  the  heart-strings  are 
thrilling ; 

And  this  I  have  felt  in  the  Valley  of  Fern. 


For  the  bright  chain  of  being,  though  widely  extended, 

Unites  all  its  parts  in  one  beautiful  whole, 
In  which  grandeur  and  grace  are  enchantingly  blended, 

Of  which  God  is  the  centre,  the  light,  and  the  soul. 
And  holy  the  hope  is,  and  sweet  the  sensation, 

Which  this  feeling  of  union  in  solitude  brings 
It  gives  silence  a  voice,  and  to  calm  contemplation 

Unseals  the  pure  fountain  whence  happiness  springs. 


POEMS.  245 

Then  nature  most  loved  in  her  loneliest  recesses, 
Unveils  her  fair  features,  and  softens  her  stern ; 

And  spreads,  like  that  being  who  bounteously  blesses, 
For  her  votary  a  feast  in  the  Valley  of  Fern. 


And  at  times  in  its  confines  companionless  straying, 

Pure  thoughts  born  in  stillness  have  pass'd  through  my 

mind; 
And  the  spirit  within,  their  blest  impulse  obeying, 

Has  soar'd  from  this  world  on  the  wings  of  the  wind ; 
The  pure  sky  above,  and  the  still  scene  around  me, 

To  the  eye  which  survey 'd  them,  no  clear  image  brought : 
But  my  soul  seem'd  entranced  in  the  vision  which  bound  me, 

As  by  magical  spell,  to  the  beings  of  thought; 
And  to  him  their  dread  Author,  the  fountain  of  feeling, 

I  have  bow'd,  while  my  heart  seem'd  within  me  to  burn ; 
And  my  spirit  contrited,  for  mercy  appealing, 

Has  calPd  on  his  name  in  the  Valley  of  Fern. 


Farewell,  lovely  valley,  when  earth's  silent  bosom 

Shall  hold  him  who  loves  thee,  thy  beauties  may  live ; 
And  thy  turf's  em'rald  tint,  and  thy  broom's  yellow  blossom, 

Unto  loiterers  like  him  soothing  pleasure  may  give. 
As  brightly  may  morning,  thy  graces  investing 

With  light  and  with  life,  wake  thy  inmates  from  sleep; 
And  as  softly  the  moon,  in  still  loveliness  resting 

To  gaze  on  its  charms,  thy  lone  landscape  may  steep. 
21* 


246  POEMS. 

Then  should  friend  of  the  bard,  who  hath  paid  with  his  praises 
The  pleasure  thou'st  yielded,  e'er  seek  thy  sojourn, 

Should  one  tear  for  his  sake  fill  the  eye  while  it  gazes, 
It  may  fall  unreproved  in  the  Valley  of  Fern. 


AN    INVITATION. 

MY  fireside  friend,  the  moon  to-night, 
Moore  says,  is  near  the  full; 

My  ingle-nook  is  warm  and  bright, 
If  I  be  cold  and  dull. 

But,  that  I  may  resemble  it, 

I  need  a  guest  like  thee 
Beside  its  cheerful  blaze  to  sit 

And  share  its  warmth  with  me. 

Iron  sharpens  iron  —  the  kindling  touch 
Of  steel  strikes  fire  from  stone; 

That  friend  for  friend  can  do  as  much 
"We  both  of  us  have  known. 

Then  come,  and  let  us  try  once  more 

On  topics  grave,  or  gay, 
How  converse,  or  the  muse's  lore, 

Can  while  an  hour  away. 


POEMS.  247 


AUTUMN. 

HOARSER  gales  are  round  us  blowing, 
Clouds  drive  o'er  the  sky; 

Day  by  day  is  shorter  growing, 
Weary  nights  are  nigh. 

Morn  and  eve  are  chill  and  dreary, 
Birds  have  lost  their  mirth; 

Whispering  leaves,  of  converse  weary, 
Silent  sink  to  earth. 

Flowers  are  in  the  garden  faded, 

From  the  fields  are  fled; 
Many  a  nook  the  blossom  shaded 

With  the  seed  is  spread. 

Dewy  drops,  the  long  grass  bending, 

Glitter  bright,  yet  chill; 
Earth  is  cold,  and  showers  descending 

Make  her  colder  still. 

Brighter  skies  and  warmer  weather 

Made  our  fancies  roam; 
Winter  binds  our  hearts  together 

Round  the  fire  at  home. 


248  POEMS. 


SPRINO. 

WRITTEN   FOR  A   CHILD'S   BOOK. 

THE  bleak  winds  of  winter  are  past, 
The  frost  and  the  snow  are  both  gone, 

And  the  trees  are  beginning  at  last 
To  put  their  green  liveries  on. 

And  now  if  you  look  in  the  lane, 

And  along  the  warm  bank,  may  be  found 

The  violet  in  blossom  again, 

And  shedding  her  perfume  around. 

The  primrose  and  cowslip  are  out, 

And  the  fields  are  with  daisies  all  gay, 

While  butterflies,  flitting  about, 
Are  glad  in  the  sunshine  to  play. 

Not  more  glad  than  the  bee  is  to  gather 
New  honey  to  store  in  his  cell; 

He  too  is  abroad  this  fine  weather, 
To  rifle  cup,  blossom,  and  bell. 

The  goldfinch,  and  blackbird,  and  thrush 
Are  brimful  of  music  and  glee; 

They  have  each  got  a  nest  in  some  bush, 
And  the  rook  has  built  his  on  a  tree. 


POEMS.  249 

The  lark's  home  is  hid  in  the  corn, 
But  he  springs  from  it  often  on  high, 

And  warbles  his  welcome  to  morn, 
Till  he  looks  like  a  speck  in  the  sky. 

0,  who  would  be  sleeping  in  bed 

When  the  skies  with  such  melody  ring, 

And  the  bright  earth  beneath  him  is  spread 
With  the  beauty  and  fragrance  of  spring? 


IN   AN    ALBUM. 

How  strange  the  thought  —  a  day  draws  nigh, 
Involved  in  present  mystery, 
When  names  which  here  have  met  before 
May  meet  again  —  one  moment  more ! 


When  amid  throngs  of  wakening  dead 
The  Book  of  Life  shall  be  outspread! 
0  grateful  bliss,  beyond  compare, 
To  find  our  names  recorded  there! 


250  POEMS 


SONNET. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOSEPH  GURNEY.    1831. 

To  be  preserved  from  "  sudden  death"  we  pray : 
And  many  have  just  cause  to  breathe  the  prayer, 
Whom  GRACE  hath  not  instructed  to  prepare 

For  that  most  awful  summons.  —  Happy  they 

Whom  HE,  the  Light,  the  Life,  the  Truth,  the  Way, 
Hath  train 'd  in  living  faith  His  cross  to  bear; 
Such  only  shall  the  crown  immortal  wear, 

And  stand  before  Him  clothed  in  white  array ! 

Believing  thee  all  ready,  then,  shall  we 
So  selfishly  thy  sudden  call  profane, 
And  mourn  a  captive's  quickly  sever Jd  chain  ? 

Oh !  let  us  rather  thank  thy  Grod  for  thee ! 

Trusting  this  line  thy  Epitaph  may  be, 

"  To  me  to  live  was  Christ !  to  die  is  gain ! " 


POEMS.  251 


TO    JOANNA, 


HER  SENDING  ME  THE  LEAF  OF  A  FLOWER  GATHERED  IN 
WORDSWORTH'S  GARDEN.* 


.  JOANNA^  though  I  well  can  guess 
That  in  mirth's  very  idleness, 

And  raillery's  enjoyment, 
This  leaf  is  sent;  it  shall  not  lose 
Its  errand,  but  afford  the  Muse 

Some  minutes'  light  employment. 

Thou  sent'st  it,  in  thy  naughty  wit, 
As  emblem,  type,  or  symbol,  fit 

For  a  mere  childish  rhymer; 
And  I  accept  it,  not  as  such, 
But  as  indicative  of  much 

Lovelier  and  far  sublimer. 

I  own,  as  over  it  I  pore, 
It  is  a  simple  leaf,  no  more: 

And  further,  without  scandal, 
It  is  so  delicate  and  small 
One  sees  'twas  never  meant  at  all 

For  vulgar  clowns  to  handle. 

*  Written  at  a  time  when  Wordsworth  was    appreciated    by 
very  few. 


252  POEMS. 

But  in  itself,  for  aught  I  see, 
'Tis  perfect  as  a  leaf  can  be; 

For  can  I  doubt  a  minute, 
That  on  the  spot  where  first  it  grew, 
It  had  each  charm  of  shape  and  hue, 

And  native  sweetness  in  it. 


Thus  sever'd  from  the  stem  where  first 
To  life  and  light  its  beauty  burst, — 

It  brings  to  recollection 
A  fragment  of  the  poet's  lay, 
Torn  from  its  native  page  away, 

For  critical  dissection. 


But  'tis  not  by  one  leaf  alone 
The  beauty  of  the  flower  is  known; 

Nor  do  I  rank  a  poet 
By  parts,  that  critics  may  think  fit 
To  quote,  who,  "redolent  of  wit," 

Take  up  his  words  to  show  it. 


If  on  its  stem  this  leaf  displayed 
Beauty  which  sought  no  artful  aid, 

And  scatter'd  fragrance  round  it; 
If  the  sweet  flower  on  which  it  grew 
Was  graceful,  natural,  lovely  too, 

Delighting  all  who  found  it; — 


POEMS.  253 

Then  will  I  own  that  flower  to  be 
A  type  of  Wordsworth,  or  of  thee; 

For  kindred  virtues  grace  you; 
And  though  the  bard  may  think  me  bold, 
And  thou  may'st  half  resolve  to  scold, 

I  in  one  page  will  place  you! 


THE    SOLITARY   TOMB. 


NOT  a  leaf  of  the  poplar  above  me  stirr'd, 
Though  it  stir  with  a  breath  so  lightly; 

Not  a  farewell  note  sang  the  sweet  singing  bird 
To  the  sun  that  was  setting  brightly. 

I  stood  alone  on  the  quiet  hill, 

The  quiet  vale  before  me; 
And  the  spirit  of  nature  serene  and  still 

Grather'd  around  and  o'er  me. 

There  was  the  Deben's  glittering  flood 
Far  away  in  its  channel  sweeping; 

And  under  the  hill-side  where  I  stood 
The  dead  in  their  graves  were  sleeping. 

22 


254  POEMS. 

Quiet  their  place  of  burial  seem'd, 
Where  trouble  could  never  enter; 

And  sweetly  the  rays  of  sunset  beam'd 
On  the  solitary  tomb  in  its  centre. 

And  often  when  I  have  wander 'd  here, 
And  in  many  moods  have  view'd  it, 

With  many  a  form  to  memory  dear 
My  fancy  has  endued  it. 

Sometimes  it  look'd  like  a  lonely  sail 
Far  away  on  the  deep  green  billow; 

And  sometimes  like  a  lamb  in  the  vale 
Asleep  on  its  grassy  pillow. 

He  that  lies  under  was  on  the  seas 
In  his  days  of  youth  a  ranger; 

Borne  on  the  billow,  and  blown  by  the  breeze, 
Little  cared  he  for  danger. 

And  yet  through  peril  and  toil  he  kept 
The  freshness  of  gentlest  feeling; 

Never  a  tear  has  woman  wept 
A  tenderer  heart  revealing. 

But  here  he  sleeps  —  many  there  are 
Who  love  his  lone  tomb  and  revere  it; 

And  one  who,  like  yon  evening  star 
Far  away,  yet  is  ever  near  it. 


POEMS.  255 


IVE-OILL. 


THE  pride  that  springs  from  high  descent 

May  be  no  pride  of  mine; 
My  lowlier  views  are  well  content 

To  claim  a  humble  line : 
Fancy  shall  wing  no  daring  flight, 

And  rear  no  lofty  dome; 
Ive-gill's  small  hamlet  her  delight, 

Ive-gill  her  modest  home. 

And  now  before  my  inward  eye 

I  see  a  lowly  vale; 
The  silent  stars  are  in  the  sky, 

And  moonlight's  lustre  pale 
Illumes  its  scatter'd  cots  and  trees, 

While  with  a  tuneful  song, 
Louder  and  steadier  than  the  breeze, 

Ive  gladly  flows  along. 

The  sun  comes  forth  —  the  valley  smiles 

In  morning's  blithe  array; 
The  song  of  birds  the  ear  beguiles 

From  every  glistening  spray; 


256  POEMS. 

The  bee  is  on  her  journey  gone 
To  store  her  humble  hive; 

And  still  in  music  rolling  on 
Is  heard  the  gladsome  Ive. 

In  such  a  spot  I  love  to  dream 

That  ancestor  of  mine 
Once  dwelt,  and  saw  on  Ive's  fair  stream 

The  cloudless  morning  shine; 
I  love  to  trace  back  "kith  and  kin" 

To  air  so  fresh  and  free, 
And  cherish  still  an  interest  in 

The  bonnie  North  countrie. 


THE  rose  which  in  the  sun's  bright  rays 
Might  soon  have  droop' d  and  perish' d; 

With  grateful  scent  the  shower  repays 
By  which  its  life  is  cherished. 

And  thus  have  e'en  the  young  in  years 
Found  flowers  within  that  flourish, 

And  yield  a  fragrance  fed  with  tears 
That  joy  could  never  nourish. 


POEMS.  257 


"WHICH  THINGS  ARE  A  SHADOW." 

I  SAW  a  stream  whose  waves  were  bright 

With  morning's  dazzling  sheen; 
But  gathering  clouds,  ere  fall  of  night, 
Had  darkened  o'er  the  scene : 
"How  like  that  tide," 
My  spirit  sigh'd, 
"  This  life  to  me  hath  been !" 

The  clouds  dispersed;   the  glowing  west 

Was  bright  with  closing  day 
And  o'er  the  river's  peaceful  breast 
Shone  forth  the  sunset  ray: — 
My  spirit  caught 
The  soothing  thought, 
"Thus  life  might  pass  away." 

I  saw  a  tree  with  ripening  fruit 

And  shady  foliage  crown' d; 
But  ah !   the  axe  was  at  its  root, 
And  felPd  it  to  the  ground: 
Well  might  that  tree 
Recall  to  me 

The  doom  my  hopes  had  found. 
22* 


258  POEMS. 

The  fire  consumed  it ;   but  I  saw 

Its  smoke  ascend  on  high — 
A  shadowy  type,  beheld  with  awe, 
Of  that  which  will  not  die, 
But  from  the  grave 
Will  rise  and  have 
A  refuge  in  the  sky. 


TO  AN  OLD  GATEWAY. 

THOU  wast  the  earliest  monument 

Of  what  in  former  days 
Had  once  been  deem'd  magnificent, 

Which  met  my  boyish  gaze. 
And  first  emotions  kindled  then, 
Now  seem  to  start  to  life  again, 

As  thou,  when  morning's  rays 
First  strike  upon  thine  ancient  head, 
All  grey  and  ivy-garlanded. 

Through  such  a  gate  as  this  perchance, 

Methought,  once  issued  free, 
All  I  have  read  of  in  romance, 
And,  reading,  half  could  see; 
Robed  priests  advancing  one  by  one, 
And  banners  gleaming  in  the  sun, 

And  knights  of  chivalry : 
Until  I  almost  seem'd  to  hear 
The  sound  of  trumpet  thrilling  near. 


POEMS.  259 

"'Twas  idlesse  all" — such  flights  as  please 

A  castle-building  boy, 
Whom  Nature  early  taught  to  seize 

Far  more  than  childish  toy, — 
The  forms  of  fancy,  free  to  range 
O'er  rhyme  and  record  old  and  strange, 

And  with  romantic  joy 
Who  even  then  was  wont  alone 
To  dream  adventures  of  his  own. 

Alas !  the  morning  of  the  soul 

Has  heavenly  brightness  in  it; 
And  as  the  mind's  first  mists  unroll, 

Makes  years  of  every  minute — 
Years  of  ideal  joy:  —  life's  path 
At  first  such  dewy  freshness  hath, 

'Tis  rapture  to  begin  it; 
But  soon,  too  soon,  the  dew-drops  dry, 
Or  glisten  but  in  sorrow's  eye. 

It  boots  but  little  —  smiles  and  tears, 

Even  from  beauty  beaming, 
Must  fade  alike  with  fleeting  years, 

Like  phantoms  from  the  dreaming: 
And  never  can  they  be  so  bright 
As  when  life's  sweet  and  dawning  light 

On  both  by  turns  was  gleaming; 
Unless  it  be  when,  unforgot, 
We  feel  "they  were  and  they  are  not/' 


260  POEMS. 

FIRESIDE    QUATRAINS. 

TO   CHARLES   LAMB. 

IT  is  a  mild  and  lovely  winter  night, 

The  breeze  without  is  scarcely  heard  to  sigh ; 

The  crescent  moon  and  stars  of  twinkling  light 
Are  shining  calmly  in  a  cloudless  sky. 

Within  the  fire  burns  clearly  :  in  its  rays 

My  old  oak  book-case  wears  a  cheerful  smile ; 

Its  antique  mouldings  brighten' d  by  the  blaze 
Might  vie  with  any  of  more  modern  style. 

That  rural  sketch — that  scene  in  Norway 's  land 
Of  rocks  and  pine  trees  by  the  torrent's  foam — 

That  landscape  traced  by  Gainsborough's  youthful  hand, 
Which  shows  how  lovely  is  a  peasant's  home — 

That  Virgin  and  her  Child,  with  those  sweet  boys — 
All  of  the  fire-light  own  the  genial  gleam ; 

And  lovelier  far  than  in  day's  light  and  noise 
At  this  still  hour  to  me  their  beauties  seem. 

One  picture  more  there  is,  which  should  not  be 
Unhonour'd  or  unsung,  because  it  bears 

In  many  a  lonely  hour  my  thoughts  to  thee, 
Heightening  to  fancy  every  charm  it  wears — 


POEMS.  261 

A  quaint  familiar  group  —  a  mother  mild 

And  young  and  fair,  who  fain  would  teach  to  read 

That  urchin,  by  her  patience  unbeguiled, 
The  volume  open  on  her  lap  to  heed. 

With  fingers  thrust  into  his  ears,  he  looks 

As  much  he  wish'd  the  weary  task  were  done ; 

And  more,  far  more,  of  pastime  than  of  books 
Lurks  in  that  arch  dark  eye  so  full  of  fun. 

Graver,  or  in  the  pouts,  (I  know  not  well 
Which  of  the  twain,)  his  elder  sister  plies 

Her  needle  so,  that  it  is  hard  to  tell 

What  the  full  meaning  of  her  downcast  eyes. 

Dear  Charles,  if  thou  shouldst  haply  chance  to  know 
Where  such  a  picture  hung  in  days  of  yore, 

Its  highest  worth,  its  deepest  charm,  to  show 
I  need  not  tax  my  rhymes  or  fancy  more. 

It  is  not  womanhood  in  all  its  grace, 

And  lovely  childhood  plead  to  me  alone  j 
Though  these  each  stranger  still  delights  to  trace, 

And  with  congratulating  smile  to  own ; 

No  —  with  all  these  my  feelings  fondly  blend 
A  hidden  charm  unborrow'd  from  the  eye; 

That  wakes  the  memory  of  my  absent  friend, 
And  chronicles  the  pleasant  hours  gone  by. 


262  POEMS. 


SONNET. 

TO  THE  SISTER  OF  AN  OLD  SCHOOLFELLOW. 

"  HEAVEN  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy  !" 
If  so,  we  should  not  with  indifference  meet 
Aught  that  recalls  a  memory  so  sweet 

As  one  of  bright  and  early  days  gone  by ! 

For,  could  we  but  abide  continually 

As  we  were  wont  in  hours  so  fair  and  fleet, 
Like  little  children,  guiltless  of  deceit, 

This  o'er  the  world  were  glorious  mastery ! 

My  school-mate's  sister !  none  of  us  can  add 

One  year  to  life's  brief  span,  or  take  from  thence 
Yet  ought  we  not,  dear  friend,  to  borrow  hence 

Desponding  thoughts,  and  make  our  spirits  sad  j 

But  holier  aspirations,  to  be  clad 

In  robes  more  white  than  our  first  innocence ! 


POEMS.  263 


THE  CUKSE  OF  DISOBEDIENCE. 


1  And  thy  heaven  that  is  over  thy  head  shall  be  brass,  and  the  earth  that  is 
under  thee  shall  be  iron."— DEUTERONOMY  xxviii.  23. 


APPALLING  doom !  yet  hearts  there  are 

Its  fearful  truth  have  found, 
Have  known  a  heaven  where  sun  nor  star 

Its  radiance  sheds  around; 

An  earth  of  iron,  whose  barren  breast 

Seem'd  icy  cold  and  dead, 
Whose  sterile  paths,  by  joy  unblest, 

In  endless  mazes  spread. 

They  who  have  trod  that  hopeless  path, 

Beneath  that  rayless  sky, 
Have  known  the  hour  of  righteous  wrath 

These  metaphors  imply. 

These  know  how  G-od's  most  holy  will 

Can  mar  creation's  face, 
And  leave  the  disobedient,  still, 

No  pleasant  resting-place. 

One  only  hope  for  such  remains  — 

Repent,  return,  and  live; 
He  who  no  penitent  disdains, 

New  heavens,  new  earth  can  give. 


264  POEMS. 

Simple  obedience  shall  restore 
Green  fields  and  sunny  skies; 

And  hearkening  to  His  voice  bring  more 
Than  Eden  to  their  eyes. 


SIGNS   AND    TOKENS. 

HE  who  watcheth  winds  that  blow, 
May  too  long  neglect  to  sow; 
He  who  waits  lest  clouds  should  rain, 
Harvest  never  shall  obtain. 

Signs  and  tokens  false  may  prove; 
Trust  thou  in  a  Saviour's  love, 
In  his  sacrifice  for  sin-, 
And  his  Spirit's  power  within. 

Keep  thou  Zion-ward  thy  face, 

Ask  in  faith  the  aid  of  grace, 

Use  the  strength  which  grace  shall  give, 

Die  to  self — in  Christ  to  live. 

Faith  in  God,  if  such  be  thine, 
Shall  be  found  thy  safest  sign, 
And  obedience  to  His  will 
Prove  the  best  of  tokens  still. 


POEMS.  265 


THE    IVY. 

ADDRESSED   TO   A  YOUNG  FRIEND. 

DOST  thou  not  love,  in  the  season  of  spring, 

To  twine  thee  a  flowery  wreath, 
And  to  see  the  beautiful  birch-tree  fling 

Its  shade  on  the  grass  beneath? 
Its  glossy  leaf  and  silvery  stem, 
Oh  dost  thou  not  love  to  look  on  them? 

And  dost  thou  not  love  when  leaves  are  greenest, 

And  summer  has  just  begun, 
When  in  the  silence  of  moonlight  thou  leanest 

Where  glistening  waters  run, 
To  see  by  that  gentle  and  peaceful  beam, 
The  willow  bend  down  to  the  sparkling  stream? 

And  oh !   in  a  lovely  autumnal  day, 
When  leaves  are  changing  before  thee, 

Do  not  Nature's  charms,  as  they  slowly  decay, 
Shed  their  own  mild  influence  o'er  thee? 

And  hast  thou  net  felt,  as  thou  stood'st  to  gaze, 

The  touching  lesson  such  scene  displays? 

It  should  be  thus  at  an  age  like  thine; 

And  it  has  been  thus  with  me, 
When  the  freshness  of  feeling  and  heart  were  mine, 

As  they  never  more  can  be : 

23 


266  POEMS. 

Yet  think  not  I  ask  thee  to  pity  my  lot, 
Perhaps  I  see  beauty  where  thou  dost  not. 

Hast  thou  seen  in  winter's  stormiest  day 

The  trunk  of  a  blighted  oak, 
Not  dead,  but  sinking  in  slow  decay, 

Beneath  time's  resistless  stroke, 
Round  which  a  luxuriant  Ivy  had  grown, 
And  wreath'd  it  with  verdure  no  longer  its  own  ? 

Perchance  thou  hast  seen  this  sight,  and  then, 

As  I,  at  thy  years,  might  do, 
Pass'd  carelessly  by,  nor  turn'd  again 

That  scathed  wreck  to  view: 
But  now  I  can  draw  from  that  mouldering  tree 
Thoughts  which  are  soothing  and  dear  to  me. 

0  smile  not !   nor  think  it  a  worthless  thing, 
If  it  be  with  instruction  fraught; 

That  which  will  closest  and  longest  cling, 
Is  alone  worth  a  serious  thought ! 

Should  aught  be  unlovely  which  thus  can  shed 

Grace  on  the  dying,  and  leaves  not  the  dead? 

Now,  in  thy  youth,  beseech  of  Him 

Who  giveth,  upbraiding  not, 
That  his  light  in  thy  heart  become  not  dim, 

And  his  love  be  unforgot; 
And  thy  God,  in  the  darkest  of  days,  will  be 
Greenness,  and  beauty,  and  strength  to  thee! 


POEMS.  267 


SILENT    WORSHIP. 


THOUGH  glorious,  0  God,  must  thy  temple  have  been 

On  the  day  of  its  first  dedication, 
When  the  cherubim  wings  widely  waving  were  seen 

On  high  o'er  the  ark's  holy  station ; 

When  even  the  chosen  of  Levi,  though  skilled 

To  minister  standing  before  Thee, 
Retired  from  the  cloud  which  thy  temple  then  fill'd, 

And  thy  glory  made  Israel  adore  Thee ; 

Though  awful  indeed  was  thy  majesty  then ; 

Yet  the  worship  thy  gospel  discloses, 
Less  splendid  in  show  to  the  vision  of  men, 

Surpasses  the  ritual  of  Moses. 

And  by  whom  was  that  ritual  for  ever  repeal' d  ? 

But  by  Him  unto  whom  it  was  given 
To  enter  the  oracle  where  is  reveal'd 

Not  the  cloud,  but  the  brightness  of  heaven. 

Who,  having  once  enter' d,  hath  shown  us  the  way, 

0  Lord,  how  to  worship  before  Thee ; 
Not  with  shadowy  forms  of  that  earlier  day, 

But  in  spirit  and  truth  to  adore  Thee. 


268  POEMS. 

This,  this  is  the  worship  Messiah  made  known, 

When  she  of  Samaria  found  Him 
By  the  patriarch's  well  sitting  weary  alone, 

With  the  stillness  of  noon-tide  around  him. 

"  Woman,  believe  me,  the  hour  is  near, 
When  He,  if  ye  rightly  would  hail  Him, 

Will  neither  be  worshipp'd  exclusively  here, 
Nor  yet  at  the  altar  of  Salem. 

"  For  God  is  a  Spirit !  and  they  who  aright 
Would  do  the  pure  worship  he  loveth 

In  the  heart's  holy  temple,  will  seek  with  delight 
That  spirit  the  Father  approveth." 

And  many  that  prophecy's  truth  can  declare 
Whose  bosoms  have  livingly  known  it ; 

Whom  Glod  has  instructed  to  visit  him  there, 
And  convinced  that  his  mercy  will  own  it. 

The  temple  that  Solomon  built  to  his  name 

Exists  but  in  name  and  in  story : 
Extinguish'd  long  since  is  that  altar's  bright  flame, 

And  vanish' d  each  glimpse  of  its  glory. 

But  the  Christian,  made  wise  by  a  wisdom  Divine, 
Though  all  human  fabrics  may  falter, 

Still  finds  in  his  heart  a  far  holier  shrine, 

Where  the  fire  burns  unquench'd  on  the  altar. 


POEMS.  269 


THE  MEMORY  OF  ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD. 

THOU  should' st  not  to  the  grave  descend 

Unmourn'd,  unhonour'd,  and  unsung ; 
Could  harp  of  mine  record  thine  end, 

For  thee  that  rude  harp  should  be  strung ; 
And  plaintive  notes  as  ever  rung 

Should  all  its  simple  strings  employ, 
Lamenting  unto  old  and  young 

The  Bard  who  sung  the  Farmer's  Boy. 

The  Harvest  Home's  rejoicing  cup 

Should  pause,  when  that  sad  note  was  heard ; 
The  Widow  turn  her  Hourglass  up, 

With  tenderest  feelings  newly  stirr'd ; 
And  many  a  pity-waken'd  word, 

And  sighs  that  speak  when  language  fails, 
Should  prove  thy  simple  strains  preferred 

To  prouder  poets'  lofty  tales. 

Circling  the  Old  Oak  Table  round, 
Whose  moral  worth  thy  measure  owns, 

Heroes  and  heroines  yet  are  found 
Like  Jlbner  and  the  Widow  Jones. 

23* 


270  POEMS. 

There  Gilbert  Meldrum's  sterner  tones 
In  virtue's  cause  are  bold  and  free, 

And  ev*n  the  patient  sufferer's  moans 
In  pain  and  sorrow  plead  for  thee. 


Nor  thus  beneath  the  straw-roof  'd  cot 

Alone  should  thoughts  of  thee  pervade 
Hearts  which  confess  thee  unforgot 

On  heathy  hill,  in  grassy  glade ; 
In  many  a  spot  by  thee  array'd 

With  hues  of  thought,  with  fancy's  gleam, 
Thy  memory  lives,  —  in  Euston's  shade, 

By  Barnham  Water's  shadeless  stream. 


And  long  may  guileless  hearts  preserve 

Thy  memory,  and  its  tablets  be ; 
While  nature's  healthy  power  shall  nerve 

The  arm  of  labour  toiling  free  : 
While  childhood's  innocence  and  glee 

With  green  old  age  enjoyment  share, 
Richards  and  Kates  shall  tell  of  thee, 

Walters  and  Janes  thy  name  declare. 


How  wise,  how  noble,  was  thy  choice, 
To  be  the  Bard  of  simple  swains ; 

In  all  their  pleasures  to  rejoice, 

And  soothe  with  sympathy  their  pains ; 


POEMS.  271 

To  sing  with  feeling  in  thy  strains 

The  simple  subjects  they  discuss, 
And  be,  though  free  from  classic  chains, 

Our  own  more  chaste  Theocritus ! 


ALL    IS   VANITY. 

IN  childhood  any  toy 

For  one  short  hour  amuses; 

And  all  its  store  of  joy 
With  its  new  lustre  loses. 

The  boy  keeps  up  the  game 
Just  as  the  child  began  it; 

For  boyhood's  joyous  flame 
Needs  novelty  to  fan  it. 

The  youth,  when  beauty's  eye 

First  wakes  the  pulse  of  pleasure, 

Thinks  with  a  fruitless  sigh 

That  he  has  found  his  treasure. 

Existence  further  scan 

In  all  succeeding  stages, 
View  it  in  ripen'd  man, 

In  hoary-headed  sages  — 


272  POEMS. 

What  pleasure  can  it  give 
Unless  it  stoop  to  borrow, 

And  lead  us  on  to  live 

On  bliss  to  be  —  to-morrow? 

What  can  this  world  bestow 
That  should  enchain  us  to  it? 

Or  compensate  the  woe 

We  bear  who  journey  through  it? 

O  man !   if  to  this  earth 
Thy  heart  is  wedded  only, 

Each  hope  that  comes  with  mirth 
Will  leave  thee  twice  as  lonely: 

And  when  that  hope  is  gone 
Thou  shalt  be  all  forsaken, 

For  having  leant  upon 

A  reed  by  each  wind  shaken. 


MIDNIGHT  has  stolen  on  me — sound  is  none, 
Save  when  light  tinkling  cinders,  one  by  one, 
Fall  from  my  fire  —  or  its  low  glittering  blaze 
A  faint  and  fitful  noise  at  times  betrays, 
Or  distant  baying  of  the  watch-dog,  caught 
At  intervals.     It  is  the  hour  of  thought — 
Canst  thou  then  marvel,  now  that  thought  is  free, 
Memory  should  wake  and  fancy  fly  to  thee  ? 


POEMS.  273 

AUTUMN. 

WRITTEN   IN    THE   GROUNDS   OF   MARTIN   COLE,    ESQ. 

WHEN  is  the  aspect  which  nature  wears 

The  loveliest  and  dearest  ?     Say  is  it  in  Spring, 

When  its  blossoms  the  apple-tree  beauteously  bears, 
And  birds  on  each  spray  are  beginning  to  sing  ? 

Or  is  it  in  Summer's  fervid  pride, 

When  the  foliage  is  shady  on  every  side, 

And  tempts  us  at  noon  in  the  green-wood  to  hide, 

And  list  to  the  wild  birds  warbling  ? — 

Lovely  is  nature  in  seasons  like  these 

But  lovelier  when  Autumn's  tints  are  spread 
On  the  landscape  round,  and  the  wind-swept  trees 

Their  leafy  honours  reluctantly  shed : 
When  the  bright  sun  sheds  a  watery  beam 
On  the  changing  leaves  and  the  glistening  stream ; 
Like  smiles  on  a  sorrowing  cheek,  that  gleam 
When  its  woes  and  cares  for  a  moment  are  fled. 

And  such  is  the  prospect  which  now  is  greeting 

My  glance,  as  I  tread  this  favourite  walk ; 
As  the  frolicsome  sunbeams  are  over  it  fleeting, 

And  each  flower  nods  on  its  rustling  stalk ; 
And  the  bosom  of  Deben  is  darkening  and  lightening, 
When  gales  the  crests  of  its  billows  are  whitening, 
Or  bursts  of  sunshine  its  billows  are  brightening, 
While  the  winds  keep  up  their  stormy  talk. 


274  POEMS. 

Of  the  brightness  and  beauty  of  Summer  and  Spring 

There  is  little  left  but  the  roses  that  blow 
By  this  friendly  wall.     To  its  covert  they  cling, 

And  eagerly  smile  in  each  sunbeam's  glow ; 
But  when  the  warm  beam  is  a  moment  withdrawn, 
And  the  loud  whistling  breeze  sweeps  over  the  lawn, 
Their  beauteous  blossoms,  so  fair  and  forlorn, 

Seem  to  shrink  from  the  wind  which  ruffles  them  so. 

Poor  wind-tost  tremblers !  some  weeks  gone  by 
You  were  fann'd  by  breezes  gentler  than  these ; 

When  you  stretch' d  your  leaves  to  a  summer  sky, 
And  open'd  your  buds  to  the  hum  of  bees : 

But  soon  will  the  Winter  be  past,  and  you, 

When  his  winds  are  gone  to  the  north,  shall  renew 

Your  graceful  apparel  of  glossy  hue, 

And  wave  your  blossoms  in  Summer's  breeze. 

The  autumnal  blasts,  which  whirl  while  we  listen ; 

The  wan,  sear  leaf,  like  a  floating  toy ; 
The  bright  round  drops  of  dew,  which  glisten 

On  the  grass  at  morn ;  and  the  sunshine  coy, 
Which  comes  and  goes  like  a  smile  when  woo'd ; 
The  auburn  meads,  and  the  foamy  flood, 
Each  sight  and  sound,  in  a  musing  mood, 

Awaken  sensations  superior  to  joy. 


P  0  E  M  8 .  275 


A   GRANDSIRE'S    TALE. 


THE  tale  I  tell  was  told  me  long  ago ; 

Yet  many  a  tale,  since  heard,  has  pass'd  away, 
While  this  still  wakens  memory's  fondest  glow, 

And  feelings  fresh  as  those  of  yesterday : 

'T  was  told  me  by  a  man  whose  hairs  were  grey, 
Whose  brow  bore  token  of  the  lapse  of  years, 

Yet  o'er  his  heart  affection's  gentle  sway 
Maintain'd  that  lingering  spell  which  age  endears, 
And  while  he  told  his  tale  his  eyes  were  dim  with  tears. 


But  not  with  tears  of  sorrow ; — for  the  eye 

Is  often  wet  with  joy  and  gratitude; 
And  well  his  faltering  voice,  and  tear,  and  sigh 

Declared  a  heart  by  thankfulness  subdued : 

Brief  feelings  of  regret  might  there  intrude, 
Like  clouds  which  shade  awhile  the  moon's  fair  light; 

But  meek  submission  soon  her  power  renew' d, 
And  patient  smiles,  by  tears  but  made  more  bright, 
Confess'd  that  God's  decree  was  wise,  and  good,  and  right. 


276  POEMS. 

It  was  a  winter's  evening  —  clear,  but  still ; 

Bright  was  the  fire,  and  bright  the  silvery  beam 
Of  the  fair  moon  shone  on  the  window-sill 

And  parlour-floor ;  —  the  softly  mingled  gleam 

Of  fire  and  moonlight  suited  well  a  theme 
Of  pensive  converse  unallied  to  gloom; 

Ours  varied  like  the  subjects  of  a  dream, 
And  turn'd  at  last  upon  the  silent  tomb, 
Earth's  goal  for  hoary  age  and  beauty's  smiling  bloom. 

We  talk'd  of  life's  last  hour ;  —  the  varied  forms 
And  features  it  assumes  j  how  some  men  are 

As  sets  the  sun  when  dark  clouds  threaten  storms, 
And  starless  night ;  others  whose  evening  sky 
Resembles  those  which  to  the  outward  eye 

Seem  full  of  promise ;  —  and  with  soften'd  tone, 
At  seasons  check'd  by  no  ungrateful  sigh, 

The  death  of  one  sweet  grand-child  of  his  own 

Was  by  that  hoary  man  most  tenderly  made  known. 

She  was,  he  said,  a  fair  and  lovely  child, 

As  ever  parent  could  desire  to  see, 
Or  seeing,  fondly  love ;  of  manners  mild, 

Affections  gentle,  even  in  her  glee 

Her  very  mirth  from  levity  was  free ; 
But  her  more  common  mood  of  mind  was  one 

Thoughtful  beyond  her  early  age,  for  she 
In  ten  brief  years  her  little  course  had  run, — 
Many  more  brief  have  known,  but  brighter  surely  none. 


POEMS.  277 

Though  some  might  deem  her  pensive,  if  not  sad, 

Yet  those  who  knew  her  better,  best  could  tell 
How  calmly  happy  and  how  meekly  glad 

Her  quiet  heart  in  its  own  depths  did  dwell, 

Like  to  the  waters  of  some  crystal  well, 
In  which  the  stars  of  heaven  at  noon  are  seen ; 

Fancy  might  deem  on  her  young  spirit  fell 
Glimpses  of  light  more  glorious  and  serene 
Than  that  of  life's  brief  day,  so  heavenly  was  her  mien. 

But  though  no  boisterous  playmate,  her  fond  smile 

Had  sweetness  in  it  passing  that  of  mirth ; 
Loving  and  kind,  her  thoughts,  words,  deeds,  the  while 

Betray'd  of  childish  sympathy  no  dearth : 

She  loved  the  wild  flowers  scattered  over  earth, 
Bright  insects  sporting  in  the  light  of  day, 

The  blackbird  trolling  joyous  music  forth, 
The  cuckoo  shouting  in  the  woods  away; 
All  these  she  loved  as  much  as  those  who  seem'd  more  gay. 

But  more  she  loved  the  word,  the  smile,  the  look, 

Of  those  who  rear'd  her  with  religious  care ; 
With  fearful  joy  she  conn'd  that  holy  book, 

At  whose  unfolded  page  full  many  a  prayer, 

In  which  her  weal  immortal  had  its  share, 
Recurr'd  to  memory ;  for  she  had  been  train'd, 

Young  as  she  was,  her  early  cross  to  bear; 
And  taught  to  love  with  fervency  unfeign'd 
The  record  of  His  life  whose  death  salvation  gain'd. 
24 


278  POEMS. 

I  dare  not  linger,  like  my  ancient  friend, 

On  every  charm  and  grace  of  this  fair  maid; 
For,  in  his  narrative,  the  story's  end 

Was  long  with  fond  prolixity  delay'd ; 

Though  fancy  had  too  well  its  close  portrayed 
Before  I  heard  it.     Who  but  might  have  guess'd 

That  one  so  fit  for  heaven  would  early  fade 
In  this  brief  state  of  trouble  and  unrest  ? 
Yet  only  wither  here  to  bloom  in  life  more  blest. 

My  theme  is  one  of  joy,  and  not  of  grief; 

I  would  not  loiter  o'er  such  flower's  decay, 
Nor  stop  to  paint  it  slowly,  leaf  by  leaf, 

Fading  and  sinking  to  its  parent  clay : 

She  sank,  as  sinks  the  glorious  orb  of  day, 
His  radiance  brightening  at  his  journey's  close; 

Yet  with  that  chasten' d,  soft,  and  gentle  ray 
In  which  no  dazzling  splendour  fiercely  glows, 
But  on  whose  mellow'd  light  our  eyes  with  joy  repose. 

Her  strength  was  failing,  but  it  seem'd  to  sink 

So  calmly,  tenderly,  it  woke  no  fear ; 
"T  was  like  a  rippling  wave  on  ocean's  brink, 

Which  breaks  in  dying  music  on  the  ear, 

And  placid  beauty  on  the  eye ;  —  no  tear 
Except  of  quiet  joy  in  hers  was  known ; 

Though  some  there  were  around  her  justly  dear, 
Her  love  for  whom  in  every  look  was  shown, 
Yet  more  and  more  she  sought  and  loved  to  be  alone. 


POEMS.  279 

One  summer  morn  they  miss'd  her ;  —  she  had  been 

As  usual  to  the  garden  arbour  brought, 
After  their  matin  meal ;  her  placid  mien 

Had  worn  no  seeming  shade  of  graver  thought, 

Her  voice,  her  smile,  with  cheerfulness  was  fraught, 
And  she  was  left  amid  that  peaceful  scene 

A  little  space ;  but  when  she  there  was  sought, 
In  her  secluded  oratory  green, 
Their  arbour's  sweetest  flower  had  left  its  leafy  screen. 

They  found  her  in  her  chamber,  by  the  bed 

Whence  she  had  risen,  and  on  the  bed-side  chair, 
Before  her,  was  an  open  Bible  spread; 

Herself  upon  her  knees : — with  tender  care 

They  stole  on  her  devotions,  when  the  air 
Of  her  meek  countenance  the  truth  made  known : 

The  child  had  died  —  died  in  the  act  of  prayer  — 
And  her  pure  spirit,  without  sigh  or  groan, 
To  heaven  and  endless  joy  from  earth  and  grief  had  flown. 


280  POEMS. 


SONNET. 

TO   NATHAN   DRAKE,    ON   THE   TITLE   OP   HIS   NEWLY 
ANNOUNCED    WORK. 


"  MORNINGS  in  Spring."  —  Oh !  happy  thou,  indeed, 
Thus  with  the  glow  of  sunset  to  combine 
Day's  earlier  brightness,  and  in  life's  decline 

To  send  thought,  feeling,  fancy  back  to  feed 

In  youth's  fresh  pastures,  from  the  emerald  mead 
To  cull  Spring  flowers  with  Autumn  fruits  to  twine ; 
And  borrow  from  past  harmonies  benign 

Strains  sweeter  far  than  of  the  pastoral  reed. 

Not  such  the  lot  of  him  who,  ere  his  sun 

Have  past  its  Summer  solstice,  feels  the  bloom 
Of  June  o'ershadow'd  by  December  gloom ; 

Thankful  if,  when  life's  stormy  race  be  run, 

The  humble  hope  that  his  day's  work  is  done, 
May  cheer  the  shadowy  entrance  to  the  tomb. 


POEMS.  281 


'MOREOVER  WHEN  YE  FAST,  BE  NOT,  AS  THE  HYPOCRITES,  OP 
A  SAD  COUNTENANCE;  FOR  THEY  DISFIGURE  THEIR  FACES, 
THAT  THEY  MAY  APPEAR  UNTO  MEN  TO  FAST.  VERILY  I  SAY 
UNTO  YOU,  THEY  HAVE  THEIR  REWARD."— MATT.  vi.  16. 


WHEN  thou  a  fast  would'st  keep 

Make  not  its  homage  cheap, 
By  publishing  its  signs  to  every  eye: 

But  let  it  be  between 

Thyself  and  THE  UNSEEN; 
So  shall  it  gain  acceptance  from  on  high. 

G-od  will  no  rival  brook! 

Austere  or  mournful  look, 
Meant  human  eye  to  catch,  or  heart  to  move, 

Seeking  but  man's  applause, 

Glory  from  God  withdraws, — 
Treason  His  spirit  sternly  will  reprove. 

From  inward  exercise, 

At  seasons  will  arise 
Dark  clouds,  which  cast  their  shadow  on  the  brow ; 

Yet  darker  to  impart, 

Shows  a  divided  heart, 
Which  makes  the  world  a  witness  of  its  vow. 
24* 


282  POEMS. 

Nor  think  in  fasts  alone, 

The  precept  here  made  known, 
Instruction  to  the  Christian's  heart  should  teach 

In  alms,  in  prayer,  in  praise — 

A  lesson  it  conveys, 
'Twere  wise  to  learn,  and  good  to  feel  in  each. 

Here  we  may  plainly  read, 

That  e'en  the  holiest  deed 
Which  in  the  least  the  praise  of  man  desires ; 

Howe'er  by  man  esteem' d, 

Will  not  by  God  be  deem'd 
That  homage  of  the  heart  which  he  requires. 


ALDBOROUOH  FROM  THE  TERRACE. 

THY  old  Moot-hall  is  but  a  relique  hoar ! 

Thy  time-worn  Church  stands  lonely  on  the  hill ! 

And  he  who  sojourns  here  when  winds  are  shrill 
In  winter  —  peradventure  might  deplore 
The  poor  old  Borough,  —  Borough  now  no  more ! 

Yet,  on  a  summer  day,  't  is  pleasant  still, 

From  this  fair  eminence  to  gaze  at  will 
Over  the  town  below,  and  winding  shore. 


POEMS.  283 


SONNET. 


TO  A   FRIEND   NEVER   YET    SEEN,   BUT   CORRESPONDED 
WITH   FOR   ABOVE   TWENTY   YEARS.* 


UNKNOWN  to  sight  —  for  more  than  twenty  years 
Have  we,  by  written  interchange  of  thought 
And  feeling,  been  into  communion  brought 

Which  friend  to  friend  insensibly  endears ! 

In  various  joys  and  sorrows,  hopes  and  fears, 
Befalling  each ;  and  serious  subjects,  fraught 
With  wider  interest,  we  at  times  have  sought 

To  gladden  this  —  yet  look  to  brighter  spheres  ! 

We  never  yet  have  met  —  and  never  may 

Perchance,  while  pilgrims  upon  earth  we  fare ; 
Yet,  as  we  seek  each  other's  load  to  bear, 

Or  lighten,  and  that  law  of  love  obey, 

May  we  not  hope  in  heaven's  eternal  day 
To  meet,  and  happier  intercourse  to  share  ? 

*  Mrs.  Sutton.  to  whom  so  many  letters  in  this  volume  are  ad- 
dressed. 


284  POEMS. 


SONNET. 

TO  CHARLOTTE   M— • . 

THOU  art  but  in  life's  morning,  and  as  yet 

The  world  looks  witchingly ;  its  fruits  and  flowers 
Are  fair  and  fragrant,  and  its  beauteous  bowers 

Seem  haunts  of  happiness  before  thee  set, 

All  lovely,  as  a  landscape  freshly  wet 

With  dew,  or  bright  with  sunshine  after  showers, 
Where  pleasure  dwells,  and  Flora's  magic  powers 

Woo  thee  to  pluck  a  peerless  coronet. 

Thus  be  it  ever :  would' st  thou  have  it  so, 

Preserve  thy  present  openness  of  heart ; 

Cherish  the  generous  feelings  that  now  start 
At  base  dissimulation,  and  that  glow 

Of  native  love  for  ties  which  home  endears ; 

And  thou  wilt  find  the  world  no  vale  of  tears. 

[1820.] 


POEMS.  285 


SONNET. 

TO  THE  REV.  J.  J.  REYNOLDS, 

CURATE   OF  WOODBRIDGE. 

DEAR  friend,  and  Christian  brother;  if  thy  creed 

May  not  on  every  point  agree  with  mine; 

Yet  may  we  worship  at  one  common  shrine, 
While  both  alike  we  feel  our  urgent  need 
Of  the  same  Saviour;  as  a  broken  reed 

Count  all  —  except  his  righteousness  Divine; 

And  equal  honour  reverently  assign 
Unto  that  Spirit,  who  for  both  must  plead! 
Since  in  these  grand  essentials  we  agree, 

Oh  what  are  modes  of  worship,  forms  of  prayer, 

Or  outward  sacraments?  I  would  not  dare 
To  doubt  that  such  are  helpful  unto  thee; 
Nor  wilt  thou  fail  in  charity  for  me, 

Seeking  within  to  know  and  feel  them  there ! 


286  POEMS. 


FALL    OF    AN    OLD    TREE 

IN  PLAYFORD  CHURCHYARD. 

THOU  hast  fallen!  and  in  thy  fall 

A  poet  may  deplore 
The  loss  of  one  memorial 

Which  time  cannot  restore; 
Thy  leafless  boughs,  and  barkless  stem, 
So  long  that  green  bank's  diadem, 

Now  greet  my  eyes  no  more: 
No  longer  canst  thou  to  my  heart 
Thy  silent  chronicles  impart. 

Since  thou  that  churchyard-gate  beside 
First  waved  thy  sapling  bough, 

Beneath  thee  many  a  blooming  bride 
Fresh  from  the  nuptial  vow 

Hath  pass'd,  with  humble  hopes  elate; 

And  slowly  borne  through  that  low  gate 
How  many,  sleeping  now 

Beneath  the  turf's  green  flowery  breast, 

Were  carried  to  their  dreamless  rest! 


POEMS.  287 

Under  thy  shadow,  full  of  glee, 

The  village  children  play'd; 
And  hoary  age  has  seen  in  thee 

His  own  decline  portray'd: 
With  human  joys,  griefs,  hopes,  and  fears, 
With  humble  smiles,  and  lowly  tears, 

Thy  memory  is  array'd; 
And  for  their  sakes,  though  reft  and  riven, 
This  record  of  thy  fall  is  given. 


THE  LAND  WHICH  NO  MORTAL  MAY  KNOW. 


THOUGH  earth  has  full  many  a  beautiful  spot, 

As  a  poet  or  painter  might  show ; 
Yet  more  lovely  and  beautiful,  holy  and  bright, 
To  the  hopes  of  the  heart  and  the  spirit's  glad  sight, 

Is  the  land  that  no  mortal  may  know. 

There  the  crystalline  stream,  bursting  forth  from  the  throne, 

Flows  on,  and  for  ever  will  flow : 
Its  waves,  as  they  roll,  are  with  melody  rife, 
And  its  waters  are  sparkling  with  beauty  and  life, 

In  the  land  which  no  mortal  may  know. 


288  POEMS. 

And  there  on  its  margin,  with  leaves  ever  green, 
With  its  fruits,  healing  sickness  and  woe, 

The  fair  tree  of  life,  in  its  glory  and  pride, 

Is  fed  by  that  deep  inexhaustible  tide 
Of  the  land  which  no  mortal  may  know. 

There  too  are  the  lost !  whom  we  loved  on  this  earth, 

With  whose  memories  our  bosoms  yet  glow ; 
Their  reliques  we  gave  to  the  place  of  the  dead, 
But  their  glorified  spirits  before  us  have  fled 
To  the  land  which  no  mortal  may  know. 

Oh  !  who  but  must  pine,  in  this  dark  vale  of  tears, 

From  its  clouds  and  its  shadows  to  go, 
To  walk  in  the  light  of  the  glory  above, 
And  to  share  in  the  peace,  and  the  joy,  and  the  love 
Of  the  land  which  no  mortal  may  know. 


FRAGMENT  ON  AUTUMN. 

THE  bright  sun  threw  his  glory  all  around; 

And  then  the  balmy,  mild,  autumnal  breeze 
Swept,  with  a  musical  and  fitful  sound, 

Among  the  fading  foliage  of  the  trees  j 

And,  now  and  then,  a  playful  gust  would  seize 
Some  falling  leaf,  and,  like  a  living  thing, 

Which  flits  about  wherever  it  may  please, 
It  floated  round  in  many  an  airy  ring, 
Till  on  the  dewy  grass  it  fell  with  wearied  wing. 


POEMS.  289 


ON  A  VIGNETTE  OF  WOODBRIDGE  FROM 
THE  WARREN  HILL. 


MY  own  beloved,  adopted  town! 

Even  this  glimpse  of  thee, 
Whereon  I've  seen  the  sun  go  down 

So  oft  —  suffices  me. 

For  more  than  forty  chequered  years 
Hast  thou  not  been  my  home? 

Till  all  that  most  this  life  endears 
Forbids  a  wish  to  roam. 

I  came  to  thee  a  stranger  youth, 

Unknowing  and  unknown; 
And  Friendship's  solace,  and  Love's  truth, 

In  thee  have  been  mine  own. 

Loved  for  the  living  and  the  dead, 

No  other  home  I  crave; 
Here  would  I  live  till  life  be  fled, 

Here  find  a  nameless  grave. 
25 


290  POEMS. 


INVOCATION  TO  AUTUMN. 


"  IT  was  a  day  that  sent  into  the  heart 

A  summer  feeling !" — and,  may  memory,  now, 

Its  own  inspiring  influence  so  impart 
Unto  my  fancy,  as  to  teach  me  how 
To  give  it  fitting  utterance.     Aid  me,  thou 

Most  lovely  season  of  the  circling  year  ! 
Before  my  leaf  of  life,  upon  its  bough, 

In  the  chill  blasts  of  age  shall  rustle  sere 

To  frame  a  votive  song  to  hours  so  justly  dear 

Autumn !  soul-soothing  season  !  thou  who  spreadest 
Thy  lavish  feast  for  every  living  thing ; 

Around  whose  leaf-strew' d  path,  as  on  thou  treadest, 
The  year  its  dying  odours  loves  to  fling, 
Their  last  faint  fragrance  sweetly  scattering ; 

Oh  !  let  thy  influence,  meek,  majestic,  holy, 
So  consciously  around  my  spirit  cling, 

That  its  delight  may  be  remote  from  folly, 

In  sober  thought  combined  with  gentle  melancholy. 


POEMS.  291 

If,  in  the  morning  of  my  life,  to  Spring 

I  paid  my  homage  with  a  heart  elate ; 
And  with  each  fluttering  insect  on  the  wing, 

Or  small  bird,  singing  to  its  happy  mate, 

And  Flora's  festival,  then  held  in  state;  — 
If  joyous  sympathy  with  such  was  mine; 

Oh  !  still  allow  me  now  to  dedicate 
To  thee  a  tenderer  strain :  that  tone  assign 
Unto  my  murmuring  lyre,  which  nature  gives  to  thine ; — 

A  tone  of  thrilling  softness,  as  if  eaught 

From  light  winds  sweeping  o'er  a  late  reap'd  field ; 
And,  now  and  then,  be  with  those  breezes  brought 

A  murmur  musical,  of  winds  conceal' d 

In  coy  recesses,  by  escape  re  veal' d :  — 
And,  ever  and  anon,  still  deeper  tone 

Of  Winter's  gathering  dirge,  at  distance  peal'd 
By  harps  and  hands  unseen,  and  only  known 
To  some  enthusiast's  ear  when  worshipping  alone. 


292  POEMS. 


STANZAS  TO  WILLIAM  ROSCOE,  ESQ. 

WHEN  first,  like  a  child  building  houses  with  cards, 

I  mimick'd  the  labours  of  loftier  bards ; 

Though  the  fabrics  I  built  felt  each  breath  that  came  near, 

Thy  smiles  taught  me  hope,  and  thy  praise  banish'd  fear. 

Thou  didst  not  reprove  with  an  Aristarch's  pride ; 
Or  unfeelingly  chill,  or  uncandidly  chide ; 
It  was  not  in  thy  nature  with  scorn  to  regard 
The  fresh-breathing  hopes  of  an  untutor'd  bard. 

Thou  knew'st,  whether  fame  crown' d  his  efforts  or  not, 
That  a  love  of  the  Muse  might  enliven  his  lot ; 
That  poesy  acts  like  a  magical  balm, 
Which  in  seasons  of  sorrow  can  silently  calm. 

It  might  win  him  no  wealth,  yet  its  treasure  would  add 
To  the  store  of  his  mind  what  would  make  the  heart  glad ; 
Would  make  the  heart  glad  with  a  pleasure  more  pure 
And  more  lasting  than  all  the  world's  wealth  can  procure. 

Then  accept  of  my  thanks  !  they  are  justly  thy  due ; 
And  forgive  me  for  seeking  once  more  to  renew 
The  ties  of  a  friendship  with  being  begun, 
By  the  father  once  own'd,  and  bequeathed  to  the  son. 


POEMS.  293 


ON  THE  ALIENATION  OF  FRIENDS 

IN   THE  DECLINE   OF  LIFE. 

'When  I  see  leaves  drop  from  their  trees  in  the  beginning  of  autuinne,  just 
such,  thirike  I,  is  the  friendship  of  the  world."  —"He  is  an  happy  man  that 
hath  a  true  friend  at  his  need ;  but  he  is  more  truly  happy  that  hath  no  need 
of  his  friend."— Warwick's  Spare  Minutes. 

THE  flower  that  blooms  beneath  the  ray 

Of  summer's  cloudless  sky, 
May  see  its  blossoms  torn  away, 

And  yet  not  wholly  die : 
The  summer  sunbeams  still  are  warm; 
It  dreads  not  winter's  distant  storm; 

And  heaven  is  bright  on  high: 
It  spreads  its  leaves  each  breeze  to  greet;  — 
Beauty  is  gone,  but  life  is  sweet. 


It  may  not-*bloom  again,  —  but  still 
Its  leaf  is  green  and  bright; 

Of  evening's  dew  it  drinks  its  fill, 
And  smiles  in  morning's  light: 

The  bee  may  find  no  honey  there; 

But  round  its  foliage,  fresh  and  fair, 
And  lovely  to  the  sight, 

The  butterfly  on  beauteous  wing 

Will  hover,  and  for  shelter  cling. 

25* 


294  POEMS. 

Not  so  the  flower  which  autumn's  smile, 

Instead  of  summer's  blaze, 
Seduces,  by  its  specious  wile, 

To  bloom  in  later  days: 
Scarce  hath  its  opening  blossom  spread, 
When  all  that  charm'd  it  forth  has  fled; 

It  droops  —  and  then  decays! 
Blasted  in  birth,  its  blight  complete, 
And  winter's  snow  its  winding-sheet. 

How  could  it  hope,  the  beam,  which  nursed 

Its  bud,  would  bless  its  bloom? 
The  languid  rays  which  warm'd  the  first, 

But  mock'd  the  latter's  doom : 
Instead  of  genial  shower  and  breeze, 
Come  rains  that  chill,  and  winds  that  freeze; 

Instead  of  glory  —  gloom. 
How  could  it  then  but  loathe  to  live, 
When  life  had  nothing  left  to  give? 

Thus  fares  it  with  the  human  mind, 
Which  Heaven  has  seem'd  to  bless 

With  a  capacity  to  find 

In  friendship  —  happiness  :  — 

Its  earliest  and  its  brightest  years 

Predict  no  pangs,  forebode  no  fears; 
No  doubts  awake  distress: 

Within  it  finds  a  cloudless  sun, 

Without,  a  friend  in  every  one. 


POEMS.  295 

How  soon  ere  youth  itself  be  flown, 

It  learns  that  friends  are  few; 
Yet  fondly  fancies  still  its  own 

Unchangeable,  and  true ! 
The  spell  is  broken;  and  the  breast 
On  which  its  hopes  had  loved  to  rest. 

Is  proved  but  human  too; 
And  Disappointment's  chilling  blight 
Strikes  its  first  blossom  of  delight. 

But  if  that  blow  be  struck  when  life 

Is  young,  and  hopes  are  high, 
Passion  will  yet  maintain  the  strife, 

Though  pain  extort  the  sigh: 
The  heart,  though  wounded,  still  can  beat 
With  something  of  its  earlier  heat, 

And  feels  too  young  to  die; 
It  may  not  with  first  rapture  thrill, 

But  better  feelings  haunt  it  still. 

.  ^ '  •  n  ,_.-,  <^.  \\ , 

Not  so,  if  in  life's  after  hours, 

The  autumn  of  our  day, 
While  yet  we  feel  our  mental  powers 

Unconscious  of  decay;  — 
If  then  confiding  in  the  truth 
Of  love  that  looks  as  fresh  as  youth, 

We  see  it  fall  away, — 
It  brings  a  desolating  grief, 
That  withers  more  than  flower  or  leaf! 

[1818.] 


296  POEMS. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

•^  . 

BUT  yet,  however  cheerless  seem 

Such  sufferer's  lonely  state, 
There  is  a  light  whose  cheering  beam 

Its  gloom  can  dissipate: 
It  conies  with  healing  on  its  wings, 
And  heavenly  radiance  round  it  flings. 

It  rises  on  the  darken' d  mind, 

In  lustre  brighter  far 
Than  that  to  outward  orb  assign' d 

Of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star; 
And  matchless  is  its  mild  control 
Over  the  desolate  in  soul. 

There  is  A  FRIEND  more  tender,  true, 

Than  brother  e'er  can  be; 
Who,  when  all  others  bid  adieu, 

Will  still  abide  by  thee; 
Who,  be  their  pathway  bright  or  dim, 
Deserts  not  those  that  turn  to  HIM. 

The  heart  by  Him  sustained,  though  deep 

Its  anguish,  still  can  bear; 
The  soul  He  condescends  to  keep, 

Shall  never  know  despair: 


POEMS.  297 

In  nature's  weakness,  sorrow's  night, 
God  is  its  strength,  its  joy,  and  light. 

He  is  the  Friend,  who  changeth  not 

In  sickness  or  in  health, 
Whether  on  earth  our  transient  lot 

Be  poverty  or  wealth; 
In  joy  or  grief,  contempt  or  fame, 
To  all  who  seek  Him  still  the  same. 

Of  human  hearts  He  holds  the  key: 

Is  friendship  meet  for  ours? 
Oh !   be  assured  that  none  but  He 

Unlocks  its  purest  powers: 
He  can  recall  the  lost,  the  dead, 
Or  give  us  nobler  in  their  stead. 

Of  earthly  friends  —  who  finds  them  true, 

May  boast  a  happy  lot; 
But  happier  still,  life's  journey  through, 

Is  he  who  needs  them  not: 
A  heavenly  Friend  —  to  know  we  need, 
To  feel  we  have  —  is  bliss  indeed. 

[1823.] 


298  POEMS. 


SELBORNE. 


THAT  quiet  vale  !  it  greets  my  vision  now, 
As  when  we  saw  it,  one  autumnal  day, 
A  cloudless  sun  brightening  each  feathery  spray 

Of  woods  that  clothed  the  Hanger  to  its  brow : 

Woods,  whose  luxuriance  hardly  might  allow 
A  peep  at  that  small  hamlet,  as  it  lay, 
Bosom'd  in  orchard  plots  and  gardens  gay, 

With  here  and  there  a  field,  perchance,  to  plough. 

Delightful  valley  !  still  I  own  thy  claim ; 
As  when  I  gave  thee  one  last  lingering  look, 
And  felt  thou  wast  indeed  a  fitting  nook 

For  him  to  dwell  in,  whose  undying  name 

Has  unto  thee  bequeath'd  its  humble  fame, 
Pure  and  imperishable,  —  like  his  book ! 


POEMS.  299 


DUNWICH. 


1  Nature  has  left  these  objects  to  decay, 
That  what  we  are,  and  have  been,  may  be  known. 


IN  Britain's  earlier  annals  thou  wert  set 

Among  the  cities  of  our  sea-girt  isle : 
Of  what  thou  wert  —  some  tokens  linger  yet 

In  yonder  ruins ;  and  this  roofless  pile, 
Whose  walls  are  worshipless,  whose  tower  —  a  mark, 
Left  but  to  guide  the  seaman's  wandering  bark ! 

Yet  where  those  ruins  grey  are  scatter' d  round, 
The  din  of  commerce  filFd  the  echoing  air; 

From  these  now  crumbling  walls  arose  the  sound 
Of  hallo w'd  music,  and  the  voice  of  prayer ; 

And  this  was  unto  some,  whose  names  have  ceased, 

The  wall'd  and  gated  CITY  OP  THE  EAST  !  * 

*  To  those  who  may  think  my  epithet  of  "  The  wall'd  and  gated 
city  of  the  east,"  somewhat  hyperbolical  as  applied  to  Dunwich,  I 
must  submit  an  extract  from  Gardner's  History  of  Dunwich,  as  con- 
taining at  least  traditional  authority. 

"  The  oldest  inhabitants  of  this  neighbourhood  report,  that  Dun- 
wich (in  ancient  time)  was  a  city  surrounded  with  a  stone  wall,  and 
brazen  gates ;  had  fifty-two  churches,  chapels,  religious  houses,  and 
hospitals,  a  king's  palace,  a  bishop's  seat,  a  mayor's  mansion,  and 
a  mint."  He  further  states  his  endeavours  —  "  to  preserve  the  fame 
of  that  renowned  city,  now  almost  swallowed  up  by  the  sea,  from 


300  POEMS. 

Thus  time,  and  circumstance,  and  change,  betray 
The  transient  tenure  of  the  worldly  wise ! 

Thus  "  Trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay/' 
And  leaves  no  splendid  wreck  for  fame  to  prize. 

While  Nature  her  magnificence  retains, 

And  from  the  contrast  added  glory  gains. 

Still  in  its  billowy  boundlessness  outspread, 
Yon  mighty  deep  smiles  to  the  orb  of  day, 

Whose  brightness  o'er  this  shattered  pile  is  shed 
In  quiet  beauty.  —  Nature's  ancient  sway 

Is  audible  in  winds  that  whisper  round, 

The  soaring  sky-lark's  song,  the  breaker's  hollow  sound. 

sinking  into  oblivion,  by  collecting  such  occurrences  dependent 
thereon,  as  may  perpetuate  the  memorial  thereof  to  posterity." — 
But  after  all,  tradition  has  done  more  for  the  past  glories  of  Dun- 
wich  than  history,  "  Time's  slavish  scribe,"  has  ever  condescended 
to  do. 

There  is  yet  to  be  found  growing  on  the  hills  and  heaths  about 
Dunwich  a  small  and  very  sweet  rose,  peculiar,  I  believe,  to  the 
place ;  and  said  to  have  been  brought  thither  by  the  monks.  There 
is  also  a  tune  called  " Dumoich  Roses"  known  in  the  county. 


POEMS,  301 


THE    SKY-LAKK. 

BIRD  of  the  free  and  fearless  wing! 

Up,  up,  and  greet  the  sun's  first  ray. 
Until  the  spacious  welkin  ring 

With  thy  enlivening  matin  lay : 
I  love  to  track  thy  heavenward  way 

Till  thou  art  lost  to  aching  sight, 
And  hear  thy  numbers,  blithe  and  gay, 

Which  set  to  music  morning's  light. 

Songster  of  sky  and  cloud  !   to  thee 

Hath  Heaven  a  joyous  lot  assign'd; 
And  thou,  to  hear  those  notes  of  glee, 

Would'st  seem  therein  thy  bliss  to  find : 
Thou  art  the  first  to  leave  behind 

At  day's  return  this  lower  earth, 
And  soaring  as  on  wings  of  wind, 

To  spring  where  light  and  life  have  birth. 

Bird  of  the  sweet  and  taintless  hour, 
When  dew-drops  spangle  o'er  the  lea, 

Ere  yet  upon  the  bending  flower 
Has  lit  the  busy  humming-bee;  — 

26 


302  POEMS. 

Pure  as  all  nature  is  to  thee  — 
Thou,  with  an  instinct  half  divine, 

Wingest  thy  fearless  flight  so  free 

Up  toward  a  yet  more  glorious  shrine. 

Bird  of  the  morn !   from  thee  might  man, 

Creation's  lord,  a  lesson  take : 
If  thou,  whose  instinct  ill  may  scan 

The  glories  that  around  thee  break, 
Thus  bidd'st  a  sleeping  world  awake 

To  joy  and  praise ;  —  oh  !   how  much  more 
Should  mind  immortal,  earth  forsake, 

And  man  look  upward  to  adore! 

Bird  of  the  happy,  heaven-ward  song! 

Could  but  the  poet  act  thy  part, 
His  soul,  up-borne  on  wings  as  strong 

As  thought  can  give,  from  earth  might  start, 
And  with  a  far  diviner  art 

Than  ever  genius  can  supply, 
As  thou  the  ear,  might  glad  the  heart, 

And  scatter  music  from  the  sky. 


POEMS. 


TO  A  VERY  YOUNO  HOUSEWIFE. 

To  write  a  book  of  household  song, 

Without  one  verse  to  thee, 
Whom  I  have  known  and  loved  so  long, 

Were  all  unworthy  me. 

Have  I  not  seen  thy  needle  plied 

With  as  much  ready  glee, 
As  if  it  were  thy  greatest  pride 

A  sempstress  famed  to  be ! 

Have  I  not  ate  pies,  pudding,  tarts, 
And  bread,  thy  hands  had  kneaded, 

All  excellent  —  as  if  those  arts 
Were  all  that  thou  hadst  heeded? 

Have  I  not  seen  thy  cheerful  smile, 
And  heard  thy  voice  as  gay, 

As  if  such  household  cares,  the  while, 
To  thee  were  sport  and  play? 

Yet  can  thy  pencil  copy  well 
Landscape,  or  flower,  or  face; 

And  thou  canst  waken  music's  spell 
With  simple,  natural  grace. 


304  POEMS. 

Thus  variously  to  play  thy  part, 
Before  thy  teens  are  spent, 

Honours  far  more  thy  head  and  heart, 
Than  mere  accomplishment! 

So  wear  the  wreath  thou  well  hast  won; 

And  be  it  understood 
I  frame  it  not  in  idle  fun 

For  girlish  womanhood. 

But  in  it  may  a  lesson  lurk, 
Worth  teaching  now-a-days; 

That  girls  may  do  all  household  work, 
Nor  lose  a  poet's  praise ! 


ALL  round  was  calm  and  still ;  the  noon  of  night 
Was  fast  approaching :  up  the  unclouded  sky 

The  lovely  moon  pursued  her  path  of  light, 
And  shed  her  silvery  splendour  far  and  nigh : 
No  sound  save  of  the  night-wind's  gentlest  sigh 

Fell  on  the  ear ;  and  that  so  softly  blew 
It  scarcely  stirr'd  in  passing  lightly  by 

The  acacia's  airy  foliage ;  faintly  too 

It  kiss'd  the  jasmine  stars  that  at  my  window  grew. 


POEMS.  305 

I  turn'd  me  to  past  hours,  remember'd  yet, 
When  we  together  walk'd  the  ocean  shore ; 

What  time  the  sun  in  hues  of  glory  set, 

What  time  the  waves  obey'd  the  winds  no  more, 
And  musie  broke  where  thunder  burst  before : 

I  thought  of  moments  when  we  turn'd  the  page 
Of  Scotland's  shepherd  Bard,  and  linger'd  o'er 

His  simple  pictures  of  an  earlier  age, 

Kilmeny's  heavenly  trance,  the  Abbot's  pilgrimage. 


THY  path,  like  most  by  mortal  trod, 

Will  have  its  thorns  and  flowers, 
Its  stony  steps,  its  velvet  sod, 

Its  sunshine  and  its  showers. 

Through  smooth  and  rough,  o'er  flower  and  thorn, 

Beneath  whatever  sky, 
Still  bear  thee  as  a  being  born 

For  immortality! 

And  be  thy  choicest  treasure  stored 

Where  Faith  may  hold  the  key; 
For  "where  our  treasure  is"  our  Lord 

Hath  said  — "The  heart  shall  be/' 
26* 


306  POEMS 


JOHN    EVELYN. 

A  TRUE  philosopher !  well  taught  to  scan 
The  works  of  nature,  those  of  art  to  prize ; 
The  latter  cordially  to  patronize, 

But  the  first,  their  AUTHOR,  and  their  plan, 

Giving  that  homage  of  far  ampler  span 
Awarded  by  the  good,  the  great,  the  wise  : 
A  hearty  lover  of  old  household  ties; 

And,  to  crown  all,  a  Christian  gentleman ! 
Such  wert  thou,  EVELYN,  in  a  busy  age 

Of  restless  change,  to  dissipation  prone ; 

And,  at  thy  death,  upon  thy  coffin-stone, 
Hast  left  this  record,  worthy  many  a  page, 
That  "all  not  honest/ '  on  this  mortal  stage, 

"Is  vain !  and  nothing  wise  save  piety  alone ! " 


Evylin  is  buried  at  Wotton,  under  a  tomb  of  freestone,  shaped 
like  a  coffin ;  with  an  inscription  thereon,  by  his  own  direction,  stat- 
ing that,  "  Living  in  an  age  of  extraordinary  events  and  revolutions, 
he  had  learned  from  thence  this  truth,  which  he  desired  might  be 
thus  communicated  to  posterity ;  "  THAT  ALL  is  VANITY  WHICH  is  NOT 
HONEST!  AND  THAT  THERE  is  NO  SOLID  WISDOM  BUT  IN  REAL  PIETY!" 


POEMS.  307 


FAITH,  HOPE,  AND  CHARITY. 

STILL  abide  the  heaven-born  three, 
Faith,  and  Hope,  and  Charity ! 
Faith  —  to  point  out  our  heavenly  goal, 
Hope  —  an  anchor  to  the  soul: 
Faith  and  Hope  must  pass  away; 
Charity  endure  for  aye ! 

Hope  must  in  possession  die; 
Faith  —  in  blissful  certainty: 
These  to  gladden  each  were  given; 
Love,  or  Charity  —  for  heaven  ! 
For,  in  brighter  realms  above, 
Charity  survives  —  as  Love. 

Love  to  Him,  the  great  I  AM ! 
Love  to  Him,  the  atoning  Lamb! 
Love  unto  the  Holy  Ghost! 
Love  to  all  the  heavenly  host! 
Love  to  all  the  human  race, 
Sanctified  by  saving  grace ! 

In  that  pure  and  perfect  love, 
Treasured  up  for  heaven  above, 
Christian!  may  thy  grateful  heart 
Have  its  everlasting  part; 
And  when  Faith  and  Hope  are  mute, 
Find  in  endless  Love  their  fruit! 


308  POEMS. 


THE  SHUNAMMITE  WOMAN. 


1  Behold,  thou  hast  been  careful  for  us  with  all  this  care ;  what  is  to  be  done  for 
thee  ?  wouldst  thou  be  spoken  for  to  the  king,  or  to  the  captain  of  the  host  ? 
And  she  answered,  I  dwell  among  mine  own  people." — 2  KINGS  iv.  13. 


WOMAN  of  pure  and  heaven-born  fame ! 

Though  Scripture's  hallow'd  page 
Hath  made  no  mention  of  thy  name, 

Thou  liv'st  from  age  to  age ! 

Thy  labour  of  unwearied  love 
To  soothe  the  prophet's  lot, 

Prompted  by  kindness  from  above, 
Shall  never  be  forgot. 

The  chamber  built  upon  the  wall, 

The  bed  whereon  he  lay, 
Stool,  table,  candlestick, — and  all 

These  things  endure  for  aye. 

If  humble  was  each  boon  conferr'd, 

Their  giver  nameless  too, 
The  record  many  a  heart  hath  stirr'd 

Kind  acts  of  love  to  do. 


POEMS.  309 

And  thus  in  human  hearts  to  dwell, 

A  pure,  undying  flame, 
Is  a  more  glorious  chronicle, 

Than  most  that  boast  a  name. 


For  ne'er  was  brighter  lustre  thrown 

On  path  by  woman  trod, 
Than  HERS,  who  dwelt  among  her  own  — 

And   CARED   FOR   THOSE    OF   GrOD ! 


THE    DEPAKTED. 

MUCH  as  we  prize  the  active  worth 

Of  those  who,  day  by  day, 
Tread  with  us  on  this  toilsome  earth 

Its  devious,  thorny  way; 
A  charm  more  hallow'd  and  profound, 

By  purer  feelings  fed, 
Imagination  casts  around 

The  memory  of  the  dead! 

They  form  the  living  links,  which  bind 

Our  spirits  to  that  state 
Of  being  —  pangless,  pure,  refined, 

For  which  in  faith  we  wait. 


310  POEMS. 

By  them,  through  holy  hope  and  love, 

We  feel  in  hours  serene 
Connected  with  a  world  above, 

Immortal  and  unseen! 


"The  dead  are  like  the  stars  by  day, 

Withdrawn  from  mortal  eye/' 
Yet  holding  unperceived  their  way 

In  heaven's  unclouded  sky. 
The  mists  of  earth  to  us  may  mar 

The  splendour  of  their  light; 
But  they,  beyond  sun,  moon,  or  star, 

Shine  on  in  glory  bright. 


In  this  brief  world  of  chance  and  change, 

Who  has  not  felt  and  known 
How  much  may  alter  and  estrange 

Hearts  fondly  deem'd  our  own? 
But  those  whom  we  lament  awhile, 

"Not  lost,  but  gone  before," 
Doubt  cannot  darken,  sin  defile, 

Or  frailty  alter  more ! 


For  death  its  sacred  seal  hath  set 
On  bright  and  by-gone  hours ! 

And  they,  whose  absence  we  regret, 
Seem  more  than  ever  OURS! 


POEMS.  311 

Ours,  by  the  pledge  of  love  and  faith, 

And  hope  of  heaven  on  high; 
A  trust  —  triumphant  over  death 

In  immortality. 


VERSES, 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  VERY  CURIOUS  OLD  ROOM  AT  THE 
"TANKARD,"  IPSWICH. 

SUCH  were  the  rooms  in  which  of  yore 
Our  ancestors  were  wont  to  dwell; 

And  still  of  fashions  known  no  more 
Even  these  lingering  relics  tell. 

The  oaken  wainscot  richly  graced 
With  gay  festoons  of  mimic  flowers, 

Armorial  bearings  half  effaced, 

All  speak  of  proud  and  long  past  hours. 

The  ceiling,  quaintly  carved  and  groin'd, 
"With  pendent  pediments  reversed, 

A  by-gone  age  recalls  to  mind, 

Whose  glories  song  hath  oft  rehearsecl, 


312  POEMS. 

And  true,  though  trite,  the  moral  taught 
"Well  worthy  of  the  poet's  rhyme, 

By  all  that  can  impress  on  thought 
The  changes  made  by  chance  and  time. 

These  tell  "  a  plain,  unvarnish'd  tale" 
Of  wealth's  decline  and  pride's  decay, 

Nor  less  unto  the  mind  unveil 

Those  things  which  cannot  pass  away! 

And  truths  which  no  attention  wake 
When  poets  sing,  or  parsons  teach, 

Perchance  may  some  impression  make, 
When  thus  a  public  house  may  preach ! 


THE  MOTHER  OF  DR.  DODDRIDGE  TEACHING  HIM 
SCRIPTURE  HISTORY  FROM  THE  DUTCH  TILES. 

HERE  he  beholds  the  stories  he  has  heard 
From  holy  lips,  embodied  to  his  view ; 

Faith  surely  follows  sight,  for  GOD'S  own  WORD, 
And  a  fond  mother's,  tell  him  all  is  true  ! 

Here  he  beholds  his  blessed  Saviour  bear 

The  cross  —  there  crucified !  —  his  eyes  are  dim 

With  childhood's  tears  —  his  silent  thought  is  prayer, 
As  her  voice  whispers,  "  It  was  all  for  him." 


POEMS.  313 


COULD  I  but  fly  to  that  calm,  peaceful  shore, 
Where  shades  of  the  bless' d  suffer  anguish  no  more, 

There  should  I  sorrow  not, 

Mis'ry  and  grief  forgot, 

Rapture  and  joy  my  lot, 
Unfelt  before ! 

Dearest  of  woman-kind,  when  I  review 

All  thy  fond,  plighted  vows,  faithful  and  true, 

Fain  would  my  spirit  fly 

To  the  bright  realms  on  high 

And,  in  thy  destiny, 
Triumph  anew! 

Ah!   my  fond  heart,  all  thy  wishes  are  vain, 

Thy  transports  are  vanished;   thy  griefs  must  remain 

Memory!  torment  no  more, 

Fancy!   thy  reign  is  o'er! 

Canst  thou  to  me  restore 
Pleasure  again? 

Silence,  my  Muse !   nor  thus  idly  deplore 
Her  whom  no  sorrow  of  thine  can  restore ! 

Nobly  endure  thy  pain, 

Sighs  and  tears  both  are  vain, 

Cease  then  thy  mournful  strain, 

Sorrow  n*  more ! 

[1811.] 

27 


314  POEMS. 


TO   A  FRIEND. 

I  OWN  I  should  rejoice  to  share 

What  poorest  peasants  do; 
To  breathe  heaven's  heart-reviving  air 

Under  its  vault  of  blue; 
To  see  great  Nature's  soul  awake 

At  morn  in  flower  and  tree; 
And  childhood's  early  joys  partake 

Amid  the  fields  with  thee. 

Yet  more  and  more  'twould  soothe  my  soul 

With  thee,  my  friend,  to  stray 
Where  ocean's  murmuring  billows  roll 

In  some  secluded  bay: 
The  silent  cliffs,  the  speaking  main, 

The  breezes  blowing  free, 
These  could  not  look,  speak,  breathe  in  vain; 

Still  less  when  shared  with  thee. 

But  though  such  luxuries  as  these 

Remain  almost  unknown, 
We  from  our  scanty  store  may  seize 

Some  pleasures  of  our  own; 
And  what  could  fortune  bring  of  bliss, 

Of  purer  bliss  to  me, 
Than  when  she  gave  me  onhr  this  — 

To  find  a  friend  in  thee. 


POEMS.  315 


HYMN  FOR  A  SUNDAY  SCHOOL. 

0  THOU  !  to  whom  the  grateful  song 
Of  prayer  and  praise  is  due, 

Hear,  we  entreat,  our  childish  throng, 
And  grant  Thy  blessing  too. 

On  those  who  from  Thy  holy  word 

Precepts  divine  instil, 
And  teach  us  how  to  love  Thee,  Lord, 

And  do  thy  holy  will; 

On  such,  0  Lord !  Thy  mercies  shed, 
Who,  in  this  world  of  woe, 

Like  fountains  with  fresh  waters  fed, 
Bear  blessings  as  they  flow. 

May  we,  beside  them  planted,  bow 
To  Thee,  the  source  of  love ! 

And  drawing  nurture  from  below, 
Breathe  sunshine  from  above. 

Then  shall  we,  while  on  earth  we  live, 

To  thine  a  comfort  be; 
And  wither,  but  through  death  to  live 

An  endless  life  with  Thee! 


316  POEMS 


RIVER    SCENE. 

* 
0  COME  and  stand  with  me  upon  this  ridge 

That  overlooks  the  sweet  secluded  vale ; 
Before  us  is  a  little  rustic  bridge, 

A  simple  plank ;  and  by  its  side  a  rail, 

On  either  hand  to  guide  the  footsteps  frail 
Of  first  and  second  childhood;  while  below, 

The  murmuring  brooklet  tells  its  babbling  tale, 
Like  a  sweet  under-song,  which  in  its  flow 
It  chanteth  to  the  flowers  that  on  its  margin  grow. 

For  many  a  flower  does  blossom  there  to  bless 
With  beauty,  and  with  fragrance  to  imbue 

The  borders — strawberry  of  the  wilderness, 
The  starlike  daisy,  violet  deeply  blue, 
And  cowslip,  in  whose  cup  the  morning  dew 

Glistens  unspent  till  noontide's  languid  hour; 
And,  last  of  all,  and  fairest  to  the  view, 

The  lily  of  the  vale,  whose  virgin  flower 

Trembles  at  every  breeze  within  its  leafy  bower. 


POEMS.  317 


THE  ABBOT  TURNED  ANCHORITE. 


'  John  Greene,  relinquishing  his  Abbacie  by  choice,  was  consecrated  an  Anchorite 
of  the  chapel  of  St.  Mary,,  in  the  old  monastery,  near  the  sea."  —  OLD 
CHRONICLE.  On  the  shore  near  Leiston  Abbey  there  is  a  little  monastic  ruin, 
which  the  poet  may  perhaps  be  allowed  to  fancy  this  abbot's  retreat. 


A  MOST  impressive  change  it  must, 
Methinks,  to  such  an  one  have  been, 

To  abdicate  the  abbot's  trust, 
And  seek  this  solitary  scene; 

Resigning  all  the  ample  sway 

Of  yon  fair  abbey's  outstretched  lands 

For  this  small  cell,  this  silent  bay, 
And  barren  beach  of  drifted  sands. 

0,  did  he  feel  how  little  all 

Religion's  outward  pomp  and  power, 

The  soul  from  earth  can  disenthral, 
And  fit  it  for  its  parting  hour? 

And  having  thus  been  taught  to  trace 

Snares  in  the  path  his  feet  had  trod, 
Sought  he  this  solitary  place, 

Here  to  "prepare  to  meet  his  God?" 
27* 


318  POEMS. 


FROM  A  POEM  ADDRESSED  TO  SHELLEY, 

THERE  are,  whose  soaring  spirits  spurn 

At  humble  lore,  and,  still  insatiate,  turn 
From  wholesome  fountains  to  forbidden  springs ; 

Whence  having  proudly  quaff'd,  their  bosoms  burn 
With  visions  of  unutterable  things, 
Which  restless  Fancy's  spell  in  shadowy  glory  brings. 

Delicious  the  delirious  bliss,  while  new ; 

Unreal  phantoms  of  wise,  good,  and  fair, 
Hover  around,  in  every  vivid  hue 

Of  glowing  beauty ;  these  dissolve  in  air, 

And  leave  the  barren  spirit  bleak  and  bare 
As  Alpine  summits :  it  remains  to  try 

The  hopeless  task  (of  which  themselves  despair) 
Of  bringing  back  those  feelings,  now  gone  by, 
By  making  their  own  dreams  the  code  of  all  society. 

"  All  fear,  none  aid  them,  and  few  comprehend ; " 
And  then  comes  disappointment,  and  the  blight 

Of  hopes,  that  might  have  bless' d  mankind,  but  end 
In  stoic  apathy,  or  starless  night : 
And  thus  hath  many  a  spirit,  pure  and  bright, 

Lost  that  effulgent  and  ethereal  ray, 

Which,  had  religion  nourished  it,  still  might 

Have  shone  on,  peerless,  to  that  perfect  day, 

When  death's  veil  shall  be  rent,  and  darkness  dash'd  away. 


POEMS.  319 

Ere  it  shall  prove  too  late,  thy  steps  retrace , 

The  heights  thy  Muse  has  scaled  can  never  be 
Her  loveliest  or  her  safest  dwelling-place. 

In  the  deep  valley  of  humility, 

The  river  of  immortal  life  flows  free 
For  thee  —  for  all.     Oh  !  taste  its  limpid  wave, 

As  it  rolls  murmuring  by,  and  thou  shalt  see 
Nothing  in  death  the  Christian  dares  not  brave, 
Whom  faith  in  God  has  given  a  world  beyond  the  grave ! 


AUTUMN    MUSINGS. 

SUMMER  leaves  are  fading, 
Sere  ones  flitting  by; 

Frequent  clouds  are  shading 
Heaven's  o'er-arching  sky. 

Gusty  winds  are  blowing 

Through  the  shortening  day; 

Evenings  longer  growing, 
Winter's  on  his  way. 

My  Spring  too  is  over, 
And  my  Summer  past; 

Daily  I  discover 
Life  more  overcast. 


320  POEMS. 


But  not  pain  nor  weakness 
Can  the  soul  enthral, 

Which,  in  faith  and  meekness, 
Looks  to  God  through  all. 


THE    SEA. 

OCEAN,  once  more  upon  thy  breast 

Delightedly  I  gaze; 
Dearer  in  life's  decline  confest 

Than  in  our  earlier  days. 

When  health  and  strength  begin  to  fail, 

And  spirits  are  deprest, 
Finding  less  "  pleasure  in  the  tale, 

Less  smartness  in  the  jest;" 

'Tis  then,  when  fades  full  many  a  flower 

And  life  draws  near  the  lees, 
We  find  how  much  has  lost  its  power 

E'en  momently  to  please. 

But  still  to  every  grander  phase 

Of  Nature  we  return, 
And  find  in  our  declining  days 

Yet  more  to  love  and  learn. 


POEMS.  321 

And  what  can  Nature's  self  supply, 

From  all  her  varied  store, 
That  may  with  thee,  old  Ocean,  vie, 

To  soothe,  or  teach  us,  more. 

Whether  our  mood  be  gay  or  grave, 

Our  spirits  high  or  low, 
There's  music  in  thy  dashing  wave, 

Or  in  thy  rippling  flow. 

Earth  is  too  prone  to  chance  and  change, 

Although  her  face  be  fair: 
We  find,  wherever  we  may  range, 

How  much  is  alter' d  there. 

But  thou  in  sunshine  or  in  storm, 

In  grandeur  or  in  grace, 
Retain'st  thine  old  primeval  form, 

Thine  old  familiar  face. 

Beneath  the  over-arching  sky, 

And  sun,  and  moon,  and  star, 
Thy  beauty  and  thy  majesty 

Man  hath  no  power  to  mar. 

Even  as  first  the  Almighty  planned 

Where  thy  domain  should  be, 
Parted  thy  waters  from  dry  land 

And  named  their  concourse  Sea ; 


322  POEMS. 

E'en  so,  from  that  creative  hour, 
With  freedom  still  unquell'd, 

In  glory,  majesty,  and  power, 
Hast  thou  dominion  held. 

Yet,  endless  as  may  seem  thy  reign, 
And  mighty  as  thou  art, 

Thy  sceptre  thou  shalt  not  retain, 
It  must  from  thee  depart: 

For  prophecy  foretells  a  day 
When  thou  must  cease  to  be : 

When  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away, 
"There  shall  be  no  more  sea." 


TO  A  PIOUS  SLAVE-OWNER. 

WOULD' ST  thou  before  the  altar  place  thy  gift, 
Thou  who  canst  hold  thy  fellow-creature  slave, 

First  from  his  neck  the  yoke  of  bondage  lift, 
And  then  of  God  and  him  forgiveness  crave. 

Till  this  be  done,  the  word  of  holy  writ 

The  folly  of  the  offering  implies, 
Oh  !  read,  mark,  learn,  and  inly  ponder  it, 

"  I  will  have  mercy,  and  not  sacrifice  ! " 


POEMS.  323 


WHIGS    AND    TORIES. 

SUSAN,  in  friendship's  social  hour, 
Perchance  for  want  of  better  themes, 

We  've  scann'd  the  deeds  of  those  in  power, 
And  argued  on  their  various  schemes ; 

Of  Whigs  and  Tories',  ins  and  outs, 

Of  this  and  that  administration, 
We  've  had  our  fears,  our  hopes,  our  doubts, 

To  which  the  state  might  owe  salvation. 

Nor  did  our  converse  lack  the  zest 
Which  difference  of  opinion  gives ; 

A  true-blue  Tory  thou  confest ; 

And  I  as  staunch  a  Whig  as  lives. 

When  I  to  censure  Pitt  have  dared 
In  sober  truth,  or  playful  mirth, 

How  zealously  hast  thou  declared 
His  matchless  eloquence  and  worth ! 

By  me  the  statesman's  fame  and  power 

Unheeded  shone,  though  bright  their  blaze : 

But  I  must  o'vn  at  such  an  hour 
I  always  envied  him  thy  praise. 

And  though  I  fear  I  still  must  be 

A  Whig,  and  in  the  name  must  glory  j 

So  warm  my  friendship  that,  for  thee, 
I  would,  but  cannot  be,  a  Tory. 


324  POEMS. 


THE  DESERTED  NEST. 

'TWAS  but  a  wither'd,  worthless  heap 
Of  dirt,  and  moss,  and  hair; 

Why  then  should  Thought  and  Fancy  keep 
A  busy  vigil  there? 

Yet  for  some  moments  as  I  stood, 

And  on  it  look'd  alone, 
I  could  but  think  in  musing  mood, 

Where  are  its  inmates  gone? — 

Perhaps  beneath  some  sunnier  sky 

They  joyous  sing  and  soar; 
Perhaps  in  sad  captivity 

Eternally  deplore  — 

And  then,  Imagination  stirr'd 

Down  to  its  hidden  spring, 
Far,  far  beyond  both  nest  and  bird, 

Thought  spread  her  airy  wing. 

When  from  our  tenements  of  clay, 
Where  briefly  they  are  shrined, 

Thought,  Fancy,  Feeling  pass  away — 
Where  flies  the  deathless  Mind? 


POEMS.  325 


Either,  from  sin  redeemed,  it  soars 

On  angel  wing  above, 
And  there  its  gratitude  outpours 

In  praise  and  joy  and  love; 

Or,  exiled  from  the  eternal  source 
Whence  such  alone  can  flow, 

It  breathes  in  accents  of  remorse 
Unutterable  woe. 


TRIPLETS, 
FOR  TRUTH'S  SAKE. 

LET  sceptics  doubt,  philosophers  deride 

The  Christian's  privilege,  "  an  inward  guide ;" 

"  Wisdom  is  of  her  children  justified ! " 

Let  such  as  know  not  what  that  boon  implies, 
God's  blessed  book  above  his  spirit  prize ; 
No  stream  can  higher  than  its  fountain  rise ! 

Let  them  whose  spirits  types  and  shadows  crave, 

For  baptism  trust  the  elemental  wave  j 

"  One  Lord,  one  faith,  one  baptism"  still  must  save  ! 

28 


326  POEMS. 

Let  those  who,  like  the  Jews,  require  a  sign, 
Partake,  unblamed,  of  outward  bread  and  wine  : 
Thou,  Lord,  within  —  canst  make  the  substance  mine. 

Believing,  in  Thy  glorious  gospel  day, 
Types,  emblems,  shadows,  all  must  pass  away ; 
In  such  I  dare  not  place  my  trust  and  stay. 

Abba !  on  Thee  with  child-like  trust  I  call; 
In  self-abasement  at  thy  footstool  fall ; 
Asking  to  know  but  Thee,  and  find  Thee  all ! 


TO   LITTLE   SUSAN. 

THE  lark,  as  he  sings  and  soars  above, 
Remembers  his  humble  home  with  love, 
And  when  he  has  finish 'd  his  joyful  strain, 
Gladly  sinks  down  to  his  nest  again. 

And  thus,  dear  girl,  though  thy  flight  has  been 
O'er  many  a  gayer  and  brighter  scene ; 
E'en  so  must  thy  grateful  heart  incline 
To  a  home  so  happy  and  loved  as  thine ! 

Fair  truant !  thy  song,  for  this  many  a  day, 

Has  been  "  Over  the  hills  and  far  away," 

And  now  unto  us,  who  seldom  roam, 

Thou  shalt  sing  the  glad  measure  of  "  Home,  sweet  home/ 


POEMS.  327 


THE  butterfly,  which  sports  on  gaudy  wing ; 

The  brawling  brooklet,  lost  in  foam  and  spray, 

As  it  goes  dancing  on  its  idle  way ; 
The  sun-flower,  in  broad  daylight  glistening ; 
Are  types  of  her  who  in  the  festive  ring 

Lives  but  to  bask  in  fashion's  vain  display, 

And  glittering  through  her  bright  but  useless  day, 
"  Flaunts,  and  goes  down,  a  disregarded  thing ! " 
Thy  emblem,  Lucy,  is  the  busy  bee, 

Whose  industry  for  future  hours  provides ; 

The  gentle  streamlet,  gladding  as  it  glides 
Unseen  along ;  the  flower  which  gives  the  lea 
Fragrance  and  loveliness,  are  types  of  thee, 

And  of  the  active  worth  thy  modest  merit  hides. 


328  POEMS. 


A  DREAM. 


A  DREAM  came  lately  in  the  hours 

To  nightly  slumber  due; 
It  pictured  forth  no  fairy  bowers 

To  Fancy's  raptured  view; 
It  had  not  much  of  marvels  strange, 
Nor  aught  of  wild  and  frequent  change 


But  all  seem'd  real  —  ay !   as  much, 

As  now  the  page  I  trace 
Is  palpable  to  sight  and  touch; 

Then  how  could  doubt  have  place  ? 
Yet  was  I  not  from  doubt  exempt, 
But  ask'd  myself  if  still  I  dreamt. 

I  felt  I  did;   but  spite  of  this, 
Ev'n  thus  in  dreams  to  meet, 

Had  much,  too  much  of  dearest  bliss, 
Though  not  enough  to  cheat: 

I  knew  the  vision  soon  would  fade, 

And  yet  I  bless'd  it  while  it  sta/d. 


POEMS.  329 


But  oh,  thy  look !     It  was  not  one 
That  earthly  features  wear; 

Nor  was  it  aught  to  fear  or  shun, 
As  fancied  spectres  are : 

'Twas  gentle,  pure,  and  passionless, 

Yet  full  of  heavenly  tenderness. 


One  thing  was  strange.  —  It  seem'd  to  me 

We  were  not  long  alone; 
But  many  more  were  circling  thee, 

Whom  thou  on  earth  hadst  known; 
Who  seem'd  as  greeting  thy  return 
From  some  unknown,  remote  sojourn. 


To  them  thou  wast  as  others  be 
Whom  on  this  earth  we  love; 

I  marvell'd  much  they  could  not  see 
Thou  earnest  from  above; 

And  often  to  myself  I  said, 

"How  can  they  thus  approach  the  dead?" 


But  though  all  these,  with  fondness  warm, 
Said  "Welcome!"   o'er  and  o'er, 

Still  that  expressive  shade,  or  form, 
Was  silent,  as  before! 

And  yet  its  stillness  never  brought 

To  them  one  hesitating  thought. 

28* 


330  POEMS. 

/  only  knew  thee  as  thou  wert, 

A  being  not  of  earth ! 
Yet  had  I  not  the  power  to  exert 

My  voice  to  check  their  mirth; 
For  blameless  mirth  was  theirs,  to  see, 
Once  more  a  friend  beloved  like  thee. 


And  so  apart  from  all  I  stood, 

Till  tears,  though  not  of  grief, 
Afforded,  to  that  speechless  mood, 

A  soothing,  calm  relief: 
And,  happier  than  if  speech  were  free, 
I  stood,  and  watch/ d  thee  silently! 

I  watch' d  thee  silently,  and  while 

I  mused  on  days  gone  by, 
Thou  gav'st  me  one  celestial  smile, 

One  look  that  cannot  die. 
It  was  a  moment  worthy  years! 
I  woke,  and  found  myself  in  tears.* 

*  u  I  never  could  cry  —  nor  do  I  remember,  since  childhood,  to 
have  shed  a  tear,  save  once  in  a  dream  about  Lucy's  angel  mother ; 
when  sleep  had  won  from  me  what  the  waking  reality  of  her  loss 
never  could."  —  From  a  letter. 


POEMS. 


331 


IN  MEMORY  OF  F.  H. 


AND  thou  indeed  art  dead! 
So  living,  loving,  one  snort  week  ago ; 

And  "bitter  tears  are  shed 
For  one  whose  smiles  were  wont  to  banish  woe. 

While  I,  who  some  time  past 
Thy  birthday  sang  with  mingled  hope  and  fear, 

Now  sing  of  thee  my  last, 
A  dirge  of  lamentation  o'er  thy  bier. 

Then  feebly  burn'd  the  flame 
Of  life  in  thee ;  for  sickness  dimm'd  thy  brow  \ 

And  /  might  seem  to  claim 
A  longer  lease  of  this  poor  life  than  thou. 

But  thou  wast  younger  far: 
The  storm  swept  over  thee ;  the  cloud  pass'd  by 

A  re-appearing  star, 
Thy  gentle  lustre  gladden'd  heart  and  eye. 


POEMS. 

Now,  in  full  womanhood, 
Thou  to  the  unknown  spirit-land  art  gone ; 

While  I  in  saddest  mood 
Am  still  left  hoping,  fearing,  lingering  on. 

Thus  scathed  and  blighted  stems, 
Leafless  and  fruitless,  cumber  still  the  ground  j 

While  flowers,  that  shone  like  gems 
Of  living  loveliness,  no  more  are  found. 

Not  that  these  flowers  die: 
Transplanted  to  a  happier  soil,  they  grow 

Beneath  a  cloudless  sky, 
And  there  with  everlasting  fragrance  blow. 


To  be  remembered  when  the  face 

Of  Nature  is  most  fair; 
Or  when  some  touch  of  heavenly  grace 

Uplifts  the  soul  in  prayer! 

These  are  the  richest,  best  reward 

A  poet's  heart  can  own, 
And  happy  is  the  humblest  bard 

Who  writes  for  these  alone. 


POEMS. 


TO    THE    DEBEN. 


No  stately  villas,  on  thy  side, 
May  be  reflected  in  thy  tide; 
No  lawn-like  parks,  outstretching  round, 
The  willing  loiterer's  footsteps  bound 
By  woods,  that  cast  their  leafy  shade, 
Or  deer  that  start  across  the  glade; 
No  ruin'd  abbey,  grey  with  years, 
Upon  thy  marge  its  pile  uprears; 
Nor  crumbling  castle,  valour's  hold, 
Recalls  the  feudal  days  of  old. 


Nor  dost  thou  need  that  such  should  be, 
To  make  thee,  Deben,  dear  to  me 
Thou  hast  thy  own  befitting  charms, 
Of  quiet  heath  and  fertile  farms, 
With  here  and  there  a  copse  to  fling 
Its  welcome  shade,  where  wild  birds  sing; 
Thy  meads,  for  flocks  and  herds  to  graze; 
Thy  quays  and  docks,  where  seamen  raise 
Their  anchor,  and  unfurl  their  sail 
To  woo  and  win  the  favouring  gale. 


334  POEMS. 

And,  above  all,  for  me  thou  hast 
Endearing  memories  of  the  past! 
Thy  winding  banks,  with  grass  o'ergrown, 
By  me  these  forty  years  well  known, 
Where,  eve  or  'morn,  'tis  sweet  to  rove, 
Have  oft  been  trod  by  those  I  love; 
By  those  who,  through  life's  by-gone  hours, 
Have  strew' d  its  thorny  path  with  flowers, 
And  by  their  influence  made  thy  stream 
A  grateful  poet's  favourite  theme. 


EPITAPH, 

ON   A  YOUNG   SOLDIER  WHO   DIED   IN   INDIA. 

WHAT  though  the  youth  who  silent  rests  below, 
Has  prematurely  met  his  earthly  doom 

What  though  his  generous  breast  no  more  shall  glow 
With  love,  nor  friendship  call  the  wand'rer  home : 

Yet  the  same  hour  which  summons  from  their  graves 
His  mould'ring  kindred  on  Britannia's  shore, 

And  the  same  trump,  resounding  o'er  the  waves, 
Shall  bid  the  Indian  dead  to  sleep  no  more. 


POEMS.  335 


OH  had  I  the  wings  of  a  dove ! 

Far,  far  from  the  world  would  I  fly, 
And  seek  a  new  home  for  my  love 

In  those  happier  regions  on  high. 

I  am  weary  of  this  lower  earth, 

Its  turmoils,  its  hopes,  and  its  fears; 

The  mourning  that  follows  its  mirth, 
Its  mirth  that  is  sadder  than  tears! 

But  there  is  a  world  yet  to  come, 
By  G-od's  presence  eternally  blest, 

Where  the  good  shall  inherit  a  home, 
And  the  weary  for  ever  shall  rest. 

Oh  had  I  the  wings  of  the  dove ! 

Far,  far  from  the  world  would  I  fly, 
And  find  a  new  home  for  my  love 

In  those  happier  regions  on  high ! 


336  POEMS. 


"TOO    LATE!" 

BITTER  the  anguish  with  these  two  words  blended, 
For  those  contemplating  their  hopeless  lot, 

Who  find  life's  summer  past, — its  harvest  ended, — 
And  winter  nigh  !  while  they  are  gathered  not. 

Yet  do  thou,  Lord,  by  thy  supreme  conviction, 
Give  them  to  feel  that,  though  their  sins  are  great, 

Thy  love  and  mercy  own  not  our  restriction, 
But  that,  with  Thee,  it  NEVER  is  TOO  LATE. 


ON    A    GARDEN. 

ENOUGH  of  Nature's  wealth  is  there 

Lost  Eden  to  recall: 
Enough  of  human  toil  and  care 

To  tell  man's  hapless  fall. 

And  Fancy,  being  once  awake, 
Recalls  one  memory  more, 

Of  Him  who  suffer' d  for  our  sake, 
Lost  Eden  to  restore. 


POEMS.  337 


SONNET    TO   a.   D.   L. 


MY  much-loved  friend !  whose  labours  oft  dispense, 

To  the  worn  sufferer,  health's  returning  bloom ; 
Skilful,  yet  modest ;  kind,  without  pretence ; 

Whose  cordial  sympathy  has  cheer' d  the  gloom 
Of  hours  more  dark  than  Winter's  self  can  show : 

While  lengthen' d  evenings  linger  out  the  year, 
May  we,  beside  thy  fire's  reviving  glow, 

Beguile  in  social  converse  evenings  drear. 
And  if  at  such  an  hour  a  transient  thought 

Of  vain  regret  for  blessings  known  no  more 
Should  cross  my  mind ;  thy  friendship,  richly  fraught 

With  consolation,  shall  my  peace  restore ; 
Grateful  I  '11  bow  to  Heaven's  supreme  decree, 
Which,  though  it  call'd  for  much,  yet  left  me  thee. 


29 


338  POEMS 


SONNET. 

ON   THE  DEATH   OF  A   FRIEND. 

"  ANOTHER,  and  another  still  succeeds ! " 
And  one  by  one  are  from  us  calFd  away, 
Friends  —  valued,  loved,  and  cherish'd  many  a  day, 

For  noble  thoughts  and  honourable  deeds. 

Yet  reckon  not  that  we  have  leant  on  reeds, 

Which  broke  to  pierce  us,  when,  without  dismay, 
In  such  we  have  reposed  that  trust  and  stay 

For  which,  e'en  from  the  grave,  their  virtue  pleads. 

The  loved  are  not  the  lost !  though  gone  before : 
To  live  in  others'  hearts  is  not  to  die ! 
Worth  thus  embalm'd  by  faithful  memory, 

As  dead  —  it  were  ungrateful  to  deplore ; 

Having  outlived  the  grave  is  one  proof  more 
That  it  was  born  for  immortality ! 


POEMS.  339 


WRITTEN  IN  A  PRAYER-BOOK  GIVEN  TO  MY 
DAUGHTER. 

MY  creed  requires  no  form  of  prayer; 

Yet  would  I  not  condemn 
Those  who  adopt  with  pious  care 

Their  use  as  aids  to  them. 

One  G-od  hath  fashion'd  them  and  me; 

One  Spirit  is  our  guide; 
For  each,  alike,  upon  the  tree 

One  common  Saviour  died! 

Each  the  same  trumpet-call  shall  wake, 

To  face  one  judgment-seat; 
Grod  give  us  grace,  for  Jesus'  sake, 

In  the  same  heaven  to  meet! 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  CEMETERY. 

TIME  may  be  lost,  and  soon  shall  be  destroy'd; 

No  watchman  cries  the  hour  beneath  the  sod : 
Death  dost  thou  dread  ?  the  sting  of  death  avoid : 

Seek'st  thou  for  pleasure  ?  learn  to  please  thy  God. 


340  POEMS. 


TO    A.    L 

THERE  are  who  travel  "  life's  dull  road/' 
Whom  discontent  with  ceaseless  goad 
Drives  forward,  murmuring  at  their  load 

Of  care  and  woe; 
Regardless  of  the  good  bestow'd 

On  all  below. 

Let  us  more  patiently  survey 
The  prospect,  gilded  by  the  ray 
Of  hope,  and  cheer'd  by  fancy  gay, 

A  lovely  pair! 
And  from  our  spirits  cast  away 

All  vain  despair. 

Believe  me,  Anne,  though  I  have  striven, 
On  life's  rough  ocean  tempest  driven, 
And  borne  the  heaviest  stroke  that  Heaven 

Inflicts  on  man, 
I  will  not  aught  withheld  or  given 

Presume  to  scan. 

And  though  I  often  must  retrace 
The  griefs  which  time  can  not  efface, 
I  'm  not  so  selfish,  blind  or  base, 

As  to  repine 
That  she  has  join'd  the  angelic  race 

Who  once  was  mine. 


POEMS.  341 

Amid  this  bitterness  of  woe 
Yet  it  has  been  my  lot  to  know 
The  comfort  friendship  can  bestow, 

The  kindly  tear 
That  sympathy  has  made  to  flow 

From  hearts  sincere. 

To  thee,  my  friend,  may  Heaven  assign 
A  more  auspicious  fate  than  mine : 
May  pure  religion's  light  divine 

Thy  steps  attend, 
And  cheer  with  influence  benign 

Thy  journey^ s  end. 


LANDGUARD    FORT. 

ALONG  the  sands,  and  by  the  sound 

Of  ocean,  moaning  night  and  day, 
It  stands;  —  its  lonely  burial-ground 

Scatter' d  with  low  stones,  moss'd  and  grey, 
Whose  brief  inscriptions  waste  away 

Beneath  the  ocean-breeze's  spell; 
And  there,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  ray, 

Still  walks  the  nightly  centinel. 
29* 


342  POEMS. 


TO  A  FRIEND  IN  DISTRESS. 

THE  waters  of  Bethesda's  pool 
"Were  to  the  outward  eye  as  clear, 

And  to  the  outward  touch  as  cool, 
Before  the  visitant  drew  near. 

But,  while  untroubled,  they  possess'd 
No  healing  virtue :  —  gentle  friend, 

Is  there  no  fount  within  the  breast 
To  which  an  angel  may  descend? 

O,  while  the  soul  unruffled  lies 

Its  mirror  only  can  display, 
However  beautiful  their  dyes, 

The  forms  of  things  that  pass  away. 

But  when  its  troubled  waters  own 
A  Saviour's  presence  —  in  the  wave 

The  healing  power  of  grace  is  known, 
And  found  omnipotent  to  save. 

A  glimpse  of  glories  far  more  bright 
Than  earth  can  give  is  mirror' d  there; 

And  perfect  purity  and  light 
The  presence  of  its  God  declare. 


POEMS.  343 


TARDY  APPROACH  OF  SPRINGL 

E'EN  now,  my  daily  labour  done, 
When  faintly  gleams  the  setting  sun, 
I  wander  forth:  while,  all  around, 
The  ear  can  catch  no  livelier  sound 
Than  gusts  of  wind,  which,  hurrying  by, 
Through  yonder  branches  seem  to  sigh; 
Unless  on  evening's  gale  should  float, 
In  fitful  swell,  the  casual  note 
Of  martial  music  *  —  faintly  caught, 
With  pleasing  melancholy  fraught. 
And  though  the  lengthen' d  day  would  fain 
Assert  fair  Spring's  returning  reign, 
The  leafless  boughs,  the  sighing  gale, 
The  gathering  clouds,  the  misty  veil 
Which  shroud  the  sun's  declining  ray, 
Confess  stern  Winter's  lengthened  sway. 
Yet  still  to  me  this  dreary  hour, 
This  shadowy  landscape,  has  the  power 
To  soothe  my  pensive  troubled  heart, 
And  tranquillizing  bliss  impart. 
I  like  to  see  bleak  Winter  yield 
To  Spring  reluctantly  the  field ; 

*  In  1811,  when  there  was  a  garrison  at  Woodbridge. 


344  POEMS. 

I  love  to  mark  the  watery  gleam  , 

Of  sunshine  on  the  Deben's  stream; 
While  still  in  some  sequester' d  lane, 
Screened  from  the  blast  that  sweeps  the  plain, 
Some  little  flower  its  head  uprears, 
Smiling  even  amid  its  tears, 
Whose  chilly  drops  shall  soon  be  dried, 
And  Flora  claim  her  garland's  pride. 


THE    VALLEY    OF    FERN. 
PART  n. 

THOU  art  changed,  lovely  spot !   and  no   more   thou  dis- 
playest, 

To  the  eye  of  thy  votary,  that  negligent  grace, 
Which,  in  moments  the  saddest,  the  tenderest,  the  gayest, 

Allured  him  so  oft  thy  recesses  to  trace. 
The  hand  of  the  spoiler  has  fallen  upon  thee, 

And  marr'd  the  wild  beauties  that  decked  thee  before ; 
And  the   charms,  which   a  poet's  warm   praises   had  won 
thee, 

Exist  but  in  memory,  and  bless  thee  no  more. 


POEMS.  345 

The  green,  palmy  fern,  which  the  softest  and  mildest 
Of  summer's  light  breezes  could  ruffle, —  is  fled ; 

And  the  bright-blossomed  ling,  which  spread  o'er  thee  her 

wildest 
And  wantonest  hues, —  is  uprooted  and  dead. 

Yet  now,  even  now,  that  thou  neither  belongest, 

Or  seem'st  to  belong,  unto  nature  or  art; 
The  love  I  still  bear  thee  is  deepest  and  strongest, 

And  thy  fate  but  endears  thee  the  more  to  my  heart. 
Thou  art  passing  away,  like  some  beautiful  vision, 

From  things  which  now  are,  unto  those  that  have  been ! 
And  wilt  rise  to  my  sight,  like  a  landscape  elysian, 

With  thy  blossoms  so  bright,  and  thy  verdure  so  green. 
Thou  wilt  dwell  in  remembrance,  among  those  recesses, 

"Which  Fancy  still   haunts,   though   they  were   and   are 

not; 
Whose  loveliness  lives,  and  whose  beauty  still  blesses, 

And,  though  ceasing  to  be,  can  be  never  forgot. 

We  know  all  we  see  in  this  beauteous  creation, 

However  enchanting  its  beauty  may  seem, 
Is  doom'd  to  dissolve  —  like  some  bright  exhalation. 

That  dazzles  and  fades  in  the  morning's  first  beam, 
The  gloom  of  dark  forests,  the  grandeur  of  mountains, 

The  verdure  of  meads,  and  the  beauty  of  flowers, 
The  seclusion  of  valleys,  the  freshness  of  fountains, 

The  sequester'd  delights  of  the  loveliest  bowers : 


346  POEMS. 

Nay,  more  than  all  these,  that  the  might  of  old  Ocean, 
Which  seems  as  it  was  on  the  day  of  its  birth, 

Must  meet  the  last  hour  of  convulsive  commotion, 
Which,  sooner  or  later,  will  uncreate  earth. 


Yet  acknowledging  this,  it  may  be  that  the  feelings 

Which  these  have  awaken' d,  the  glimpses  they  ;ve  given, 
Combined  with  those  inward  and  holy  revealings 

That  illumine  the  soul  with  the  brightness  of  heaven, 
May  still  be  immortal,  and  destined  to  lead  us, 

Hereafter,  to  that  which  shall  not  pass  away ; 
To  the  loftier  destiny  God  hath  decreed  us, 

The  glorious  dawn  of  an  unending  day. 
And  thus  like  the  steps  of  the  ladder  ascended 

By  angels,  (which  rose  on  the  patriarch's  eye,) 
With  the  perishing  beauties  of  earth  may  be  blended 

Sensations  too  pure  and  too  holy  to  die. 


Nor  would  Infinite  Wisdom  have  plann'd  and  perfected, 

With  such  grandeur  and  majesty,  beauty  and  grace, 
The  world  we  inhabit ;  and  thus  have  connected 

The  heart's  better  feelings  with  Nature's  fair  face; 
If  the  touching  emotions,  thus  deeply  excited, 

Towards  Him  who  made  all  things,  left  nothing  behind, 
Which,  enduring  beyond  all  that  sense  has  delighted, 

Becomes  intellectual,  immortal,  as  mind ! 


POEMS.  347 

But  they  do ;  and  the  heart  that  most  fondly  has  cherish'd 
Such  feelings,  nor  suffer 'd  their  ardour  to  chill, 

Will  find,  when  the  forms  which  inspired  them  have  per- 

ish'd, 
Their  spirit  and  essence  remain  with  it  still. 


Thus  thinking,  I  would  not  recall  the  brief  measure 

Of  praise,  lovely  valley !  devoted  to  thee; 
Well  has  it  been  won  by  the  moments  of  pleasure 

Afforded  to  others  and  chaunted  by  me. 
May  their  thoughts  and  mine  often  silently  ponder 

Over  every  loved  spot  that  our  feet  may  have  trod ; 
And  teach  us,  while  through  Nature's  beauties  we  wander, 

All  space  is  itself  but  the  temple  of  G-od ! 
That  so  when  our  spirits  shall  pass  through  the  portal 

Of  Death,  we  may  find,  in  a  state  more  sublime 
Immortality  owns  what  could  never  be  mortal ! 

And  eternity  hallows  some  visions  of  time  1 


348  POEMS. 


TO  CHARLOTTE  M- 


"  THOU  art  but  in  life's  morning !  "     Years  have  sped 
Their  silent  flight,  since  thus  my  idle  rhyme 
Address' d  thee  in  thy  being's  opening  prime } 

If,  since  that  hour,  some  clouds  at  times  have  spread 

Their  shadow  o'er  thy  path,  these  have  not  shed 
Their  wrath  upon  thee ;  but,  from  time  to  time, 
Have  led  thy  spirit  sunnier  heights  to  climb, 

Communing  with  the  loved,  lamented  dead. 

And  still  thou  art  but  in  the  later  morn 

Of  thy  existence  —  hearts  of  finest  mould 
,  And  best  affections  are  empower'd  to  hold 

The  purer,  nobler  feelings  with  them  born, 

Which  will  not  let  them  droop,  of  hope  forlorn, 
Nor  by  a  few  brief  years  grow  dull  and  cold. 

[1828.] 


POEMS.  349 


SCOTT  OF  AMWELL. 

IN  childhood's  dawn,  in  boyhood's  later  days, 
Dear  to  my  heart  the  Bard  of  Amwell's  lays : 
Whether  his  Muse  portrayed  upon  her  scroll 
The  ever-changing  "  SEASONS,"  as  they  roll ; 
Or  touch'd  the  heart's  more  tender  sympathies, 
•Mourning  the  rupture  of  love's  sweetest  ties ; 
Or  whether,  with  a  genuine  past'ral  grace, 
The  simple  scenery  round  her  loved  to  trace, 
And  tune  her  Doric  reed,  or  artless  lyre, 
To  AM  WELL'S  tufted  groves,  and  modest  spire; 
Or,  mindless  how  the  world's  vain  glory  frown'd, 
Denounced  the  martial  "drum's  discordant  sound/' 
Or  true  to  Nature's  social  feelings,  penn'd 
Sonnets  and  rhymes  to  many  a  distant  friend ;  — 
Whate'er  the  theme  —  truth,  tenderness,  in  all 
Their  echo  woke,  and  held  my  heart  in  thrall. 


And,  even  now,  in  health  and  strength's  decay, 
Ay,  on  this  cheerless,  dull  November  day, 
When  moaning  winds  through  trees  all  leafless  sigh, 
And  all  is  sad  that  greets  the  ear  and  eye ; 
Now  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  I  cherish  still 
The  lingering  throb,  the  unextinguish'd  thrill, 
30 


350  POEMS. 

Woke  by  the  magic  of  his  verse  of  yore, 
When  new  to  me  the  Muse's  gentle  lore ; 
And  gratefully  confess  the  boundless  debt 
Due  to  my  boyhood's  benefactor  yet  ; 
Nor  boyhood's  only  —  when  his  page  I  scan, 
What  charm 'd  the  child,  still  fascinates  the  man, 
And  better  test  of  merit  none  need  claim, 
Than  thus  in  youth  and  age  to  seem  the  same. 


SOME  griefs  there  are  which  seem  to  form 

Our  nature's  heaviest  doom; 
Which  like  some  dark  and  dreadful  storm 

Cover  the  soul  with  gloom; 
And  with  the  tempest's  direful  wrath 
Leave  devastation  in  their  path. 


But  others  soft  as  summer-showers 

Descend  upon  the  heart, 
And  to  its  most  delightful  flowers 

Fresh  loveliness  impart; 
Awakening  feelings  not  of  earth, 
Which  could  not  owe  to  joy  their  birth. 


POEMS.  351 


STANZAS. 

I  FEEL  that  I  am  growing  old, 

Nor  wish  to  hide  that  truth, 
Conscious  my  heart  is  not  more  cold 

Than  in  my  by-gone  youth. 

I  cannot  roam  the  country  round 

As  I  was  wont  to  do; 
My  feet  a  scantier  circle  bound, 

My  eyes  a  dimmer  view. 

But  on  my  mental  vision  rise 
Bright  scenes  of  beauty  still, — 

Morn's  splendour,  evening's  glowing  skies, 
Valley  and  grove  and  hill. 

Nor  can  infirmities  o'erwhelm 

The  purer  pleasures  brought 
From  the  immortal  spirit's  realm 

Of  feeling  and  of  thought. 

My  heart!   let  no  dismay  or  doubt 

In  thee  an  entrance  win, 
Thou  hast  enjoy'd  thyself  without, 

Now  seek  thy  joy  within ! 

[1845.] 


352  POEMS. 


THERE  be  those  who  sow  beside 
The  waters  that  in  silence  glide, 
Trusting  no  echo  will  declare 
Whose  footsteps  ever  wander' d  there. 

The  noiseless  footsteps  pass  away, 
The  stream  flows  on  as  yesterday; 
Nor  can  it  for  a  time  be  seen 
A  benefactor  there  had  been. 

Yet  think  not  that  the  seed  is  dead 
Which  in  the  lonely  place  is  spread; 
It  lives  —  it  lives  —  the  spring  is  nigh, 
And  soon  its  life  shall  testify. 

That  silent  stream,  that  desert  ground, 
No  more  unlovely  shall  be  found; 
But  scatter 'd  flowers  of  simplest  grace 
Shall  spread  their  beauty  round  the  place. 

And  soon  or  late  a  time  will  come 
When  witnesses,  that  now  are  dumb, 
With  grateful  eloquence  shall  tell 
From  whom  the  seed  there  scatter'd  fell. 


POEMS.  353 


TO  THE  WIFE  OF  ONE  DISAPPOINTED  OF  HIS 
ELECTION  TO  PARLIAMENT. 


LADY,  I  send  this  tributary  strain 
Not  to  condole,  but  to  congratulate : 
I  would  not  so  insult  thy  noble  mate 

As  to  suppose  defeat  could  give  him  pain. 

Not  worthless  was  the  struggle,  though  in  vain, 
Which  leaves  the  vanquished  victor  over  fate, 
Up-bearing  still  with  head  and  heart  elate, 

And  with  a  conscience  wholly  free  from  stain. 

The  world  may  shout  upon  the  winning  side, 
Yet  he  who  loses  not  his  self-control, 
But  stands  erect  with  independent  soul, 

Though  foil'd  has  still  a  better  source  of  pride ; 

And  may  be  envied  —  seated  by  thy  side, 
First  in  thy  heart,  though  last  upon  the  poll ! 


30* 


354  POEMS. 


TO  SOME  FRIENDS 

RETURNING   FROM   THE    SEA-SIDE. 

FORGET  not  the  moments 

I've  wander' d  with  you, 
When  Nature  was  glorious, 

And  beautiful  too. 

When  the  dash  of  the  billow 
That  broke  on  the  beach, 

Made  loftier  music 

Than  science  can  reach. 

When  the  clouds,  sailing  over 

The  bright  azure  sky, 
Look'd  like  structures  of  glory 

That  proudly  pass'd  by. 

When  the  breeze  sweeping  near  us 

Seem'd  life  to  impart, 
And  each  glowing  sun-beam 

Shone  into  the  heart. 


POEMS.  355 


O  think  of  those  moments, 
When  home  you  return ! 

And  the  social  fire  blazing 
Before  you  shall  burn. 

While  you,  sitting  by  it, 

With  many  a  smile, 
And  sisterly  converse, 

The  hours  shall  beguile. 

Should  fancy  then  wander, 

As  wander  it  will, 
May  it  come  back  and  tell  you 

I  think  of  you  still. 

Should  you,  when  'tis  star-light, 
Look  out  on  the  sky, 

And  Jupiter's  glory 

Flash  full  on  your  eye;  — 

Will  you  then  remember 
How  brightly  he  shone 

In  our  lone  sea-side  parlour, 
When  daylight  was  gone? 

Or,  when  nights  are  stormy, 

And  winter  winds  high, 
When'  the  war  of  the  elements 
Sweeps  through  the  sky;  — 
28 


356  POEMS. 

Should  it  rouse  you  from  slumber, 

May  memory  awake; 
And  the  sounds  that  disturb  you 

Be  sweet  for  its  sake. 

Be  the  tone  of  the  tempest 
Like  that  of  the  sea, 

And  in  pauses  of  silence 
Give  one  thought  to  me! 


A  VILLAGE   CHURCH. 


How  quietly  it  stands  within  the  bound 
Of  its  low  wall  of  grey  and  mossy  stone ! 

And  like  a  shepherd's  peaceful  flock  around 

Their  guardian  gather' d  —  graves  or  tombstones  strown 
Make  their  last  narrow  resting-places  known, 

Who,  living,  loved  it  as  a  holy  spot ; 

And  dying,  did  their  deep  attachment  own 

By  wishing  here  to  sleep  when  life  was  not, 

And  that  some  humble  sign  might  keep  them  unforgot. 


POEMS.  367 


TO   A   FRIEND. 


ON     HER     BIRTH-DAY 

THIS  is  thy  birth-day !  and  for  friendship's  sake, 

Ev'n  in  this  gloomiest  season  of  the  year, 
Feelings  as  warm  as  spring  could  ever  wake 

Have  chronicled,  and  bid  me  hold  it  dear. 

The  heart  has  in  itself  a  hemisphere 
That  knows  not  change  of  season,  day  or  night ; 

For  still  when  thoughts  of  those  we  love  are  near, 
Their  cherish' d  forms  arise  before  our  sight, 
And  o'er  the  spirit  shed  fresh  sunshine  and  delight 

Nature,  who  wore  when  few  months  since  we  met 
Her  summer  garb,  a  different  dress  displays ; 

Your  garden  walks  may  now  be  moss'd  and  wetj 
The  jasmine's  star-like  bloom,  which,  in  the  rays 
Of  the  bright  moon  seem'd  lovely  to  my  gaze, 

Has  faded  now ;  and  the  green  leaves,  that  grew 
So  lightly  on  the  acacia's  topmost  sprays, 

Have  lost,  ere  this,  the  beauty  of  their  hue, 

And  quiver  o'er  the  path  their  reliques  soon  must  strew. 


358  POEMS. 

Is  there  nought  left  then  loveliness  to  lend 
Unto  the  spot  my  memory  loves  to  trace  ? 

Should  I  now  find,  were  I  to  come  and  spend 
A  day  with  you,  no  beauty  left  to  grace 
What  seemed  of  quiet  joy  the  dwelling-place  ? 

Oh,  yes !  believe  me,  much  as  I  admired 

Those  charms  which  change  of  seasons  can  efface, 

It  was  not  such  alone,  when  home  retired, 

That  memory  cherished  most,  or  most  the  Muse  inspired. 

When  Nature  sheds  her  leafy  loveliness, 

She  does  not  die :  her  vital  principle 
But  seeks  awhile  its  innermost  recess, 

And  there  securely  finds  a  citadel 

Which  even  winter  owns  impregnable ; 
The  sap,  retreating  downward  to  the  root, 

Is  still  alive,  as  spring  shall  shortly  tell, 
By  swelling  buds,  whence  blossoms  soon  will  shoot, 
Dispensing  fragrance  round,  and  pledge  of  future  fruit. 

And  thus  our  best  affections,  those  which  bind 

Heart  unto  heart  by  friendship's  purest  tie, 
Have  an  internal  life,  and  are  enshrined 

Too  deeply  in  our  bosoms  soon  to  die. 

Spring's  opening  bloom  and  summer's  azure  sky 
Might  lend  them  animation  scarce  their  own ; 

But  when  November  winds  are  loud  and  high, 
And  Nature's  dirge  assumes  its  deepest  tone, 
The  joy  of  social  hours  in  fullest  charm  is  known. 


POEMS.  359 


•AND  I  SAID,  THIS   IS  MY   INFIRMITY,   BUT  I  WILL  REMEMBER 
THE    YEARS    OF    THE   RIGHT   HAND    OF    THE    MOST    HIGH."- 

PSALM   LXXVII.   10. 


ALMIGHTY  Father !  in  these  lines,  though  brief, 
Of  thy  most  holy  word,  how  sweet  to  find 
Meet  consolation  for  the  troubled  mind, 

Nor  for  the  suffering  body  less  relief ! 

When  pain  or  doubt  would  as  a  nightly  thief 
Rob  me  of  faith  and  hope  in  Thee  enshrined, 
0  be  there  to  these  blessed  words  assign'd 

Balm  for  each  wound,  a  cure  for  every  grief. 

Yes,  I  will  think  of  the  eternal  years 

Of  Thy  right  hand — the  love,  the  ceaseless  care, 
The  tender  sympathy  Thy  works  declare, 

And  Thy  word  seals ;  until  misgiving  fears, 

Mournful  disquietudes,  and  faithless  tears, 
Shall  pass  away  as  things  that  never  were. 


360  POEMS. 


A  NEW-YEAR  OFFERING, 

ADDRESSED    TO    QUEEN    VICTORIA. 
1847. 

ONCE  more  hath  Time's  revolving  flight, 

Which  knows  no  stop,  and  brooks  no  stay, 
From  busy  day,  or  silent  night, 

Brought  us  another  "New-year's  Day:" 
And  I,  who  oft,  with  votive  lay, 

Have  heralded  the  new-born  year, 
Once  more  feel  bound  my  debt  to  pay, 

Although  with  trembling,  and  in  fear. 

For  who  that  has  attain'd  threescore, 

And  upwards,  —  glancing  to  the  past, 
Conning  the  future,  too,  once  more, 

And  conscious  that  life's  sands  ebb  fast, 
While  clouds  his  evening  sky  o'er-cast, 

But  well  may  feel  —  that  as  to  all 
An  hour  must  come,  of  life  the  last ! 

How  soon  the  night  round  him  may  fall ! 


POEMS.  361 

But  this  must  be  as  Grod  shall  will! 

Suns  rise,  and  set ;  moons  wax,  and  wane ; 
Stars  hold  their  onward  courses  still; 

And  ebbs  and  flows  the  mighty  main; 
The  trees,  now  leafless  on  the  plain, 

Shall  bud  and  blossom  with  the  Spring; 
And  Summer  deck  with  flowers  again 

Valley,  and  hill,  where  wild  birds  sing. 


Hope  springs  perpetual  in  the  breast, 

That  one  more  year  may  yet  be  ours; 
And  though  this  cannot  be  our  rest, 

Life's  roughest  paths  have  still  their  flowers ; 
E'en  through  the  cloud  that  darkest  lours 

Some  gleams  of  sunshine  find  their  way; 
The  dreaded  storm  goes  off  in  showers, 

And,  once  more,  all  around  looks  gay. 


Hence,  e'en  in  seasons  dark  and  drear, 

When  Winter  binds  the  frozen  earth, 
By  many  a  blazing  fire  we  hear 

The  blythesome  laugh  of  joyous  mirth : 
And,  round  the  cheerful  household  hearth, 

The  kindly  wish,  the  look,  the  word, 
Call'd  forth  in  spite  of  Nature's  dearth, 

Are  kindling,  as  a  fire  just  stirr'd! 
31 


362  POEMS. 

It  is  the  season  of  the  year 

When  thoughts  and  feelings,  apt  to  roam 
While  groves  are  green  and  skies  are  clear, 

Tip-gather,  and  unfold  at  home! 
In  lowly  hut,  or  lordly  dome, 

Greetings  of  glee  are  interchanged; 
E'en  wanderers  on  the  salt  sea-foam, 

From  kindred  seem  no  more  estranged. 


They  gaily  trim  their  cabin  fire, 

And  think  of  those  —  who,  by  the  light 
Of  their  own  hearths,  now  blazing  higher, 

To  hail  this  festal  day  and  night, 
With  many  a  jocund  New-year  rite, 

And  thoughts  nor  tide  nor  time  can  stem, 
Their  home-bound  memories  now  requite, 

And  turn,  instinctively,  to  them. 


Hail  to  the  time !  when  social  joys, 

In  which  the  humblest  have  their  part, 
Give  birth  to  bliss  which  seldom  cloys, 

But  binds  more  closely  heart  to  heart; 
And  if  unbidden  tears  may  start 

At  gaps,  by  death  or  absence  made, 
A  better  hope  will  cheer  the  heart 

Of  unions  that  shall  never  fade. 


POEMS.  363 

What  marvel,  then,  if  at  this  time, 

That  English  hearts,  in  grief,  or  glee, 
Hallow'd  by  many  a  midnight  chime, 

Brightened  by  many  a  holly-tree, 
With  its  green  leaves,  and  berries  free 

To  glisten  in  home's  happy  smiles, 
My  heart  should  fondly  turn  to  THEE, 

Who  rulest  o'er  our  sea-girt  Isles  ? 


Where  are  the  links  that  home  endear, 

The  joys  which  gladden  its  fire-side, 
More  fondly  loved  and  prized  than  here, 

Search  where  you  will  the  world  so  wide? 
Such  in  their  purer  bliss,  and  pride, 

Thy  CONSORT'S,  CHILDREN'S  smiles  inspire; 
With  such  is  evermore  allied 

The  memory  of  THY  NOBLE  SIRE! 


To  the  true  soul  of  England's  Queen, 

In  English  hearts  and  homes  to  live, 
And  rule  them  with  a  sway  serene, 

Should  be  a  proud  prerogative. 
A  WIFE,  a  MOTHER,  must  receive 

From  empery  so  pure  and  high, 
A  joy  the  sceptre  cannot  give, 

Nor  all  the  pomp  of  courts  supply. 


364  POEMS. 

The  loyalty  that  owes  its  birth 

To  happy  hearts  —  must  far  transcend, 
And  boast  a  higher,  purer  worth, 

Than  common  homage  can  pretend; 
For  thoughts  and  feelings  with  it  blend, 

Which  have  their  origin  above ! 
And  ever  to  their  birth-place  tend, 

Whose  loyalty  is  based  on  love. 

Then  may  this  coming  year  —  to  THEE, 

And  THINE,  with  every  good  be  fraught; 
From  shore  to  shore,  from  sea  to  sea, 

May  seeming  ill  be  overwrought, 
And  into  such  subjection  brought, 

By  Him  who  loves  to  guard  the  right, 
That  skies  now  dark  to  boding  thought, 

May  round  thee  beam  in  cloudless  light. 


POEMS.  365 


'NO  MAN  THAT  WARRETH  ENTANGLETH  HIMSELF  WITH  THE 
AFFAIRS  OF  THIS  LIFE,  THAT  HE  MAY  PLEASE  HIM  WHO  HATH 
CHOSEN  HIM  TO  BE  A  SOLDIER."  — 2  TIMOTHY  ii.  4. 


HE  who  would  win  a  warrior's  fame, 
Must  shun,  with  ever  watchful  aim, 

Entangling  things  of  life; 
His  couch  the  earth,  heaven's  arching  dome 
His  airy  tent,  —  his  only  home 

The  field  of  martial  strife. 

Unwearied  by  the  battle's  toil, 
Uncumber'd  by  the  battle's  spoil, 

No  dangers  must  affright; 
Nor  rest  seduce  to  slothful  ease ; 
Intent  alone  his  chief  to  please, 

Who  call'd  him  forth  to  fight. 

Soldier  of  Christ,  if  thou  would'st  be 
Worthy  that  epithet,  stand  free 

From  time's  encumb'ring  things; 
Be  earth's  enthralments  fear'd,  abhorr'd ; 
Knowing  thy  Leader  is  the  Lord, 

Thy  Chief  the  King  of  kings ! 
31* 


366  POEMS. 


THE    BIBLE. 

LAMP  of  our  feet !  whereby  we  trace 
Our  path,  when  wont  to  stray; 

Stream  from  the  fount  of  heavenly  grace ! 
Brook  by  the  traveller's  way! 

Bread  of  our  souls !  whereon  we  feed ; 

True  manna  from  on  high ! 
Our  guide,  and  chart!  wherein  we  read 

Of  realms  beyond  the  sky. 

Pillar  of  fire  —  through  watches  dark ! 

Or  radiant  cloud  by  day! 
When  waves  would  whelm  our  tossing  bark  - 

Our  anchor  and  our  stay! 

Pole-star  on  life's  tempestuous  deep ! 

Beacon !  when  doubts  surround 
Compass  !  by  which  our  course  we  keep ; 

Our  deep  sea-land,  to  sound ! 

Riches  in  poverty!  our  aid 

In  every  needful  hour! 
Unshaken  rock!  the  pilgrim's  shade; 

The  soldier's  fortress  tower! 


POEMS.  367 

Our  shield  and  buckler  in  the  fight! 

Victory's  triumphant  palm ! 
Comfort  in  grief!   in  weakness,  might! 

In  sickness,  Gilead's  balm ! 

Childhood's  preceptor!   manhood's  trust! 

Old  age's  firm  ally ! 
Our  hope  —  when  we  go  down  to  dust, 

Of  immortality! 

Pure  oracles  of  Truth  Divine ! 

Unlike  each  fabled  dream 
Given  forth  from  Delphos'  mystic  shrine, 

Or  groves  of  Academe ! 

Word  of  the  Ever-living  God! 

Will  of  His  glorious  Son! 
Without  Thee  how  could  earth  be  trod? 

Or  heaven  itself  be  won? 

Yet  to  unfold  thy  hidden  worth, 

Thy  mysteries  to  reveal, 
That  SPIRIT  which  first  gave  thee  forth 

Thy  volume  must  UNSEAL! 

And  we,  if  we  aright  would  learn 

The  wisdom  it  imparts, 
Must  to  its  heavenly  teaching  turn 

With  simple,  child-like  hearts  ! 


368  POEMS. 


THE  springs  of  life  are  failing  one  by  one, 

And  Age  with  quicken' d  step  is  drawing  nigh  j 

Yet  would  I  heave  no  discontented  sigh, 
Since  cause  for  cold  ingratitude  is  none. 
If  slower  through  my  veins  life's  tide  may  run, 

The  heart's  young  fountains  are  not  wholly  dry ; 

Though  evening  clouds  shadow  my  noontide  sky, 
Night  cannot  quench  the  spirit's  inward  sun  ! 
Once  more,  then,  ere  the  eternal  bourn  be  pass'd, 

"Would  I  my  lyre's  rude  melody  essay ; 

And,  while  amid  the  chords  my  fingers  stray, 
Should  Fancy  sigh  —  "  These  strains  may  be  its  last ! 
Yet  shall  not  this  my  mind  with  gloom  o'ercast, 

If  my  day's  work  be  finish'd  with  the  day ! 


POEMS. 


VERSES  TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND. 


IF,  long  ere  this,  no  lay  of  mine, 

Has  been  to  thee  devoted, 
'Tis  not  because  such  worth  as  thine 

Has  idly  pass'd  unnoted. 

To  charms  more  transient,  tribute  due 

Has  oft  been  idly  chanted; 
And  auburn  locks,  or  eyes  of  blue, 

Have  gain'd  what  folly  wanted ! 

To  beauty's  song  and  beauty's  smile 
My  Muse  has  homage  render'd; 

And  unto  many  a  trifling  wile 
Some  trifling  meed  has  tender'd. 

In  praising  such,  my  short-lived  song 

Did  all  that  I  desired  it; 
It  lived,  perchance,  about  as  long 

As  that  which  first  inspired  it. 

Not  such,  my  friend,  the  song  for  thee; 

Did  I  that  lyre  inherit, 
Which  Cowper  woke,  its  strings  should  be 

Responsive  to  thy  merit. 


370  POEMS. 

Thou  art  not  one  whose  path  has  been 
Strew'd  but  with  summer  roses; 

With  sky  above  of  blue  serene, 
Which  never  storm  discloses. 

Who  tread  such  paths,  with  graceful  glee, 
May  cull  what  clusters  round  them; 

And,  fading,  may  to  memory  be 
Just  like  the  flowers  that  crown'd  them. 

But  in  the  bloom  of  youth  to  tread 
As  through  a  desert  dreary; 

With  much  to  harass  heart  and  head, 
To  harass  and  to  weary; 

So  circumstanced,  to  cultivate 
Each  flower  that  leisure  graces; 

And  thus  to  find,  in  spite  of  fate, 
Sweet  spots  in  desert  places: 

To  do  all  this,  and  still  to  be, 

In  social  life,  a  woman 
From  half  thy  sex's  follies  free, 

Is  merit  far  from  common. 


POEMS.  371 


THE  lamp  will  shed  a  feeble  glimmering  light, 

When  the  sustaining  oil  is  nearly  spent; 

The  small  stars  twinkle  in  the  firmament. 
And  the  moon's  paler  orb  arise  on  night, 
When  day  has  waned ;  the  scathed  tree,  despite 

Of  age,  look  green,  with  ivy-wreaths  besprent ; 

And  faded  roses  yet  retain  a  scent, 
When  death  has  made  them  loveless  to  the  sight. 
So  linger  on,  as  seeming  loth  to  die, 

Light,  colour,  sweetness ;  thus  unto  the  last 

The  poet  o'er  his  worn-out  lyre  will  cast 
A  nerveless  hand,  and  still  new  numbers  try ; 
Not  unrewarded,  if  its  parting  sigh 

Seem  like  the  lingering  echo  of  the  past. 


372  POEMS. 


JACOB  WRESTLING. 

"  And  he  said,  I  will  not  let  thee  go,  except  thou  bless  me."  —GENESIS  xxxii.  26. 

NOBLE  words,  heroic  vow, 

"Worthy  imitation; 
Meet  to  waken,  even  now, 

Holy  emulation. 

Seed  of  Jacob !  you  who  share 

Aught  of  Israel's  spirit, 
Wrestle  thus  in  fervent  prayer, 

Blessing  to  inherit. 

Prayer,  surpassing  human  might; 

Prayer,  heaven's  holy  portress; 
Prayer,  the  saint's  supreme  delight, 

Prayer,  the  sinner's  fortress. 

Prayer  and  faith  can  joy  impart, 

Joy  beyond  expressing, 
And  call  down  upon  the  heart 

Israel's  richest  blessing. 


POEMS.  373 


WINTER  EVENING  DITTY. 

FOR  A  LITTLE  GIRL. 

?T  is  dark  and  cold  abroad,  my  love,  but  warm  and  bright 

within, 
So  ransack  o'er  thy  treasured  store,  and  evening's  sports 

begin ; 
Thy  playthings,  what  an  endless  list !  thy  dolls,  both  great 

and  small; 
Empty  thy  Lilliputian  hoard,  and  let  us  see  them  all. 

There's  not  a  king  who  wears  a  crown,  nor  miser  hoarding 

pelf, 

More  absolute  and  rich  than  thou,  my  little  sportive  elf; 
Those   dolls   thy  docile  subjects  are,  that  footstool  is  thy 

throne. 
And  all  the  wealth  which  mammon  boasts  is  worthless  to 

thy  own. 

Or  must  it  be  a  living  thing,  to  please  thy  fancy  now, 
There 's  puss,  although  she  looks  so  grave,  as  fond  of  play 

as  thou; 
Who  patiently  submits  to  sports  which  common  cats  would 

tire, 
Contented,  if  she  can  but  keep  her  post  beside  the  fire. 

32 


374  POEMS. 

She  quietly  consents  to  be  in  baby  garments  drest, 
Or,  in  thy  little  cradle  rock'd,  as  quietly  will  rest ; 
I  know  not  which  most  happy  seems  when  mirthful  is  your 

air, 
Nor  could  I  find  a  puck,  or  puss,  with  either  to  compare. 

But   if  a  graver  mood  be  thine  —  with  needle   and  with 

thread  — 
When  sport  grows  dull,  e'en  give  it  o'er,  and  play  at  work 

instead ; 

Yet  much  I  doubt,  though  sage  thy  look,  and  busy  as  a  bee, 
Whether  that  fit  of  sempstress-ship  will  long  suppress  thy 

glee. 

But  hark !  I  hear  the  curfew-bell — thy  little  eyes  grow  dim ; 
Put  by  thy  work,  dolls,  toys,  and  all  —  and  say  thy  evening 

hymn: 
'Tis  said !  now  bid  us  all  farewell,  kiss  dear  mamma — and 

then 
Sweet  sleep  and  pleasant  dreams  be  thine  till  morning  dawn 

again. 


POEMS.  375 


AND  THE  BARREL  OF  MEAL  WASTED  NOT,  NEITHER  DID  THE 
CRUSE  OF  OIL  FAIL,  ACCORDING  TO  THE  WORD  OF  THE  LORD, 
WHICH  HE  SPAKE  BY  ELIJAH."  —  1  KINGS  xvii.  16. 


How  rich  is  poverty's  scant  hoard, 
When  God  hath  bless'd  its  lot! 

How  poor  the  heaps  that  wealth  has  stored, 
If  He  hath  bless'd  them  not !  — 

Witness  proud  Ahab's  regal  dome, 

And  the  poor  widow's  humble  home. 

There  dwelt  she,  with  sufficient  food 

For  nature's  simple  calls; 
While  fear  and  caution  sentries  stood 

Beside  the  monarch's  walls :  — 
Her  cruse  by  power  unseen  was  fed, 
Her  meal  supplied  their  daily  bread. 

Is  there  no  cruse  whose  store  should  feed 

Devotion's  hallow'd  fire? 
No  living  bread,  whose  daily  need 

Our  deathless  souls  require? 
Are  there  not  seasons  when  we  sigh 
In  secret  o'er  our  scant  supply  ? 


376  POEMS. 

Be  ours  the  faith  the  widow  knew, 
When  she  the  seer  supplied, 

So  shall  we  own  the  promise  true, 
God's  goodness  will  provide; 

The  meal  shall  last,  the  cruse  fail  not 

Till  plenty  be  our  spirits'  lot. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CHILD  OF  EXTRAORDINARY 
ENDOWMENTS  AND  PIETY. 


IT  is  not  length  of  years  which  lends 
The  brightest  loveliness  to  those 

Whose  memory  with  our  being  blends, 
Whose  love  within  our  bosom  glows. 

The  age  we  honour  standeth  not 

In  locks  of  snow,  or  length  of  days; 

But  in  a  life  which  knows  no  spot, 
A  heart  which  heavenly  wisdom  sways. 

For  wisdom  taught  by  Heavenly  Truth, 
Unlike  mere  worldly  wisdom,  finds 

Its  full  maturity  in  youth, 
Its  antitype  in  infant  minds. 


POEMS.  377 

Thus  was  this  child  made  early  wise, 

Wise  as  those  sages  who,  from  far, 
Beheld  at  once  in  Bethlehem's  skies 

The  new-born  Saviour's  herald  star. 

*      <  v 

No  more  could  learning  do  for  them 

Than  guide  them  in  the  path  they  trod; 

And  the  same  star  of  Bethlehem 
Led  this  child's  spirit  to  his  God. 

Well  may  his  memory  be  dear, 

Whose  loss  is  still  its  sole  alloy; 
Whose  happy  lot  dries  every  tear 

With  holy  hope  and  humble  joy. 

"The  brightest  star  in  Morning's  host" 
Is  that  which  shines  in  twilight  skies; 

"Scarce  ris'n,  in  brighter  beams  'tis  lost/' 
And  vanishes  from  mortal  eyes. 

Its  loss  inspires  a  brief  regret, 

Its  loveliness  is  unforgot; 
We  know  full  well  'tis  shining  yet, 

Although  we  may  behold  it  not. 


32* 


378  POEMS. 


TO  THE  "BERNARD  BARTON"  SCHOONER. 


GLIDE  gently  down  thy  native  stream, 

And  swell  thy  snowy  sail 
Before  fair  April's  morning  beam, 

And  newly  waken' d  gale. 

Thine  onward  course  in  safety  keep, 
By  favouring  breezes  fann'd, 

Along  the  billows  of  the  deep 
To  Mersey's  distant  strand. 

Thou  bearest  no  such  noble  name 
As  all  who  read  may  know; 

But  one  at  least  that  well  may  claim 
The  blessing  I  bestow. 

That  name  was  given  to  honour  me 
By  those  with  whom  I  dwell; 

And  cold  indeed  my  heart  would  be 
Did  I  not  speed  thee  well. 

Not  all  the  glory  those  acquire, 

Who  far  for  glory  roam, 
Can  match  the  humble  heart's  desire 

For  love  fulfill'd  at  home. 


POEMS.  379 


BIRTH-DAY   VERSES; 
AT  SIXTY-FOUR. 

TIME,  that,  as  he  travels  past, 
Seems  sometimes  slow  and  sometimes  fast, 
Swift  as  bird,  when  all  looks  bright, 
Slow  as  snail,  in  sorrow's  night; 
Time,  that,  with  a  little  span, 
Measures  out  the  life  of  man, 
And  draws  the  limit  at  four-score, 
Has  brought  me  now  to  Sixty-four. 


When,  with  retrospective  eye, 
Age  considers  days  gone  by, 
And  contrasts  the  dreams  of  youth 
With  the  present's  sterner  truth, 
In  our  outward,  inward  frame, 
Scarcely  we  appear  the  same! 
Yet  the  contrast  why  deplore? 
Come  it  must  at  Sixty-four. 


380  POEMS. 

Fancy,  painting  all  things  bright, 
Gay  Hope,  shedding  cloudless  light, 
Sanguine  ardour  for  all  good, 
In  itself  scarce  understood, 
Buoyant  spirits,  health  robust, — 
Such,  with  time,  must  yield  their  trust; 
And  with  most  their  sway  is  o'er 
Ere  they  come  to  Sixty-four. 

Then  the  weary  Fancy  palls; 
Sober  Truth  gay  Hope  enthrals; 
Grood  —  we  would  aspire  to  still, 
Hopeless  seems  'mid  so  much  ill; 
Buoyant  spirits  lose  their  sway; 
Health  declines,  and  must  decay; 
Till  sad  hearts  sicken  at  the  core, 
Reviewing  life  at  Sixty-four. 

Yet  this  should  not  be  the  end 
Unto  which  life  ought  to  tend; 
Such  were  but  the  bud,  the  bloom, 
Of  a  morn  that  fear'd  no  gloom; 
Bud  and  bloom  should  leave  behind 
Fruit  to  feed  the  immortal  mind: 
Spirit!   count  thine  inward  store; 
Hast  thou  none  at  Sixty-four? 


POEMS.  381 

Is  the  past  a  barren  void? 

Hast  thou  suffer'd,  and  enjoy'd, 

Loathed,  and  loved,  and  felt,  and  thought, 

Yet  from  all  hast  gathered  nought, 

Which,  the  flower  now  past  and  gone, 

Thou  canst  inly  feed  upon? 

Life  has  taught  thee  no  true  lore, 

Lacking  such  at  Sixty-four. 


Though  thy  health  and  strength  decline, 
Though  thy  drooping  spirits  pine 
Though  full  many  a  friend  be  fled, 
And  full  many  a  loved  one  dead; 
Thou  art  not  left  all  alone, 
O'er  the  past  to  make  thy  moan; 
But  Jlclior's  valley  is  a  door 
Of  hope  to  thee  —  at  Sixty-four. 


Friends  well-tried,  and  kindred  dear, 
Filial  love  —  are  left  to  cheer; 
Sweetest  memories  of  the  past, 
Fondly  cherish' d  to  the  last; 
Hopes  that  soar,  and  thoughts  that  climb 
Far  beyond  the  verge  of  time; 
Healing  influence  round  thee  pour, 
And  call  for  THANKS!  —  at  Sixty-four. 


382  POEMS. 

Weariness  will  follow  those 
Who  touch  upon  their  journey's  close; 
But  as  the  sun,  though  setting,  burns 
Still  brightly,  and  to  glory  turns 
The  very  clouds  that  round  him  roll; 
So,  even  so,  do  thou,  my  soul, 
With  in-born  radiance,  more  and  more, 
Illume  the  shades  of  Sixty-four. 


Nay,  let  a  yet  Diviner  power 
Glorify  thy  latter  hour: 
Too  long  faithless  and  forlorn, 
Earthly  image  thou  hast  borne; 
Now  that  heavenly  impress  seek, 
Which,  when  flesh  is  frail  and  weak, 
Gives  the  soul  new  power  to  soar, 
Eagle-wing'd  —  at  Sixty-four. 


POEMS. 


ON  THE  GLORY  DEPICTED  ROUND  THE  HEAD 
OF  THE  SAVIOUR. 


A  BLAMELESS  fancy  it  perchance  might  be 
Which  first  with  glory's  radiant  halo  crown'd  Thee ; 

Art's  reverent  homage,  eager  all  should  see 
The  majesty  of  Godhead  beaming  round  Thee. 

But  if  thine  outward  image  had  been  such, 
The  glory  of  the  inner  God  revealing, 

What  hand  had  dared  thy  vesture's  hem  to  touch, 
Though  conscious  even  touch  was  fraught  with  healing ! 

More  truly,  but  more  darkly,  prophecy 
The  form  of  thy  humanity  had  painted ; 

One  not  to  be  desired  of  the  eye, 
A  Man  of  sorrows,  and  with  grief  acquainted. 

Saviour  and  Lord !  if  in  thy  mortal  hour 
Prophets  and  saints  alone  could  tell  thy  story, 

0  how  shall  painter's  art,  or  poet's  power, 
Describe  Thee  coming  in  thy  promised  glory ! 


384  POEMS. 


TO  A  GRANDMOTHER. 

"Old  age  is  dark  and  unlovely."  —  OSSIAN. 

0  SAY  not  so !  A  bright  old  age  is  thine ; 
Calm  as  the  gentle  light  of  summer  eves, 
Ere  twilight  dim  her  dusky  mantle  weaves 

Because  to  thee  is  given,  in  thy  decline, 

A  heart  that  does  not  thanklessly  repine 

At  aught  of  which  the  hand  of  God  bereaves, 
Yet  all  He  sends  with  gratitude  receives ;  — 

May  such  a  quiet  thankful  close  be  mine  ! 
And  hence  thy  fire-side  chair  appears  to  me 

A  peaceful  throne  —  which  thou  wert  form'd  to  fill; 

Thy  children,  ministers  who  do  thy  will ; 

And  those  grand-children,  sporting  round  thy  knee, 
Thy  little  subjects,  looking  up  to  thee 

As  one  who  claims  their  fond  allegiance  still.* 


*"A  good  Sonnet.     Dun.v  —  C. 


POEMS.  385 


I  WALKED  the  fields  at  morning  prime, — 
The  grass  was  ripe  for  mowing; 

The  sky-lark  sang  his  matin  chime, 
And  all  the  world  was  glowing. 

I  wander'd  forth  at  noon, —  alas, 

On  earth's  maternal  bosom 
The  scythe  had  left  the  withering  grass, 

And  stretch'd  the  faded  blossom. 

Once  more  at  eve  abroad  I  stray'd, 
Through  lonely  hay-fields  musing, 

While  every  breeze  that  round  me  play'd 
The  perfume  was  diffusing. 

And  so  the  "actions  of  the  just," 
When  memory  has  enshrined  them, 

Breathe  upward  from  decay  and  dust, 
And  leave  sweet  scent  behind  them. 


33 


386  POEMS. 


ON   A 

DRAWING  OF  NORWICH  MARKET-PLACE, 

BY  COTMAN.-TAKEN  IN  1807. 

MOMENTS  there  are  in  which 
We  feel  it  is  not  good  to  be  alone ! 

Shrined  in  our  narrow  niche, 
As  if  we  would  all  fellowship  disown. 

And  least  of  all  for  me, 
A  poor  recluse  and  book-worm,  is  it  good 

An  alien  thus  to  be, 
Standing  aloof  from  my  own  flesh  and  blood. 

In  desk-work  through  the  day, 
In  minstrel  labour  to  the  noon  of  night, 

I  would  not  wear  away 
My  sympathy  with  every  social  right. 

In  many  an  hour  of  thought, 
And  solitary  musing  mood  of  mind, 

Good  is  it  to  be  brought 
Thus  into  intercourse  with  human  kind. 


POEMS.  387 

To  see  the  populous  crowd 
Who  throng  the  busy  market's  ample  space; 

To  hear  their  murmur  loud, 
And  watch  the  workings  of  each  busy  face. 

To  let  my  Fancy  roam, 
As  Fancy  will,  would  we  but  grant  her  leave. 

With  each  unto  his  home  — 
There  finding  what  may  glad  the  heart  or  grieve. 

On  all  around  to  look, 
With  a  true  heart  to  feel  and  sympathize; 

As  reading  in  a  book, 
Those  countless  windows  looking  down  like  eyes 

On  the  dense  mass  below  — 
O,  who  can  guess  what  feelings  past  and  gone, 

Of  varied  weal  or  woe, 
Throbb'd  in  the  busiest  there,  or  lookers  on ! 

Needs  there  a  graver  thought 
To  give  the  motley  scene  more  solemn  power? 

How  quickly  is  it  brought 
By  that  old  church's  lengthen'd  roof  and  tower! 

It  looks  down  on  the  scene 
Where  buyers  —  sellers  —  earn  their  daily  bread; 

Forming  a  link  between 
The  busy  living  and  the  silent  dead. 


388  POEMS. 

And  ever  and  anon, 
High  above  all  that  hubbub's  mingled  swell, 

For  some  one  dead  and  gone 
Is  heard  its  deep  sonorous  funeral  bell. 

Thirty-eight  years  gone  by 
Thus  did  this  motley  moving  medley  look; 

And  still  unto  mine  eye 
It  utters  more  than  any  printed  book. 


THE    SPIRITUAL    LAW* 


;But  the  word  is  very  nigh  unto  thee,  in  thy  mouth,  and  in  thy  heart,  that 
thou  mayest  do  it."  — DEOT.  xxx.  14. 


SAY  not  the  Law  Divine 
Is  hidden  from  thee,  or  afar  removed : 

That  Law  within  would  shine, 
If  there  its  glorious  light  were  sought  and  loved. 


*  "  I  am  particularly  pleased  with  the  *  Spiritual  Law.'  It  re- 
minded  me  of  Quarles,  and  holy  Mr.  Herbert,  as  Izaak  Walton 
calls  him  —  the  two  best,  if  not  only,  of  our  devotional  poets;  though 
some  prefer  Watts,  and  some  Tom  Moore." — C.  LAMB. 


POEMS.  389 

Soar  not  on  high, 
Nor  ask  who  thence  shall  bring  it  down  to  earth ; 

That  vaulted  sky 
Hath  no  such  star,  didst  thou  but  know  its  worth. 

Nor  launch  thy  bark 
In  search  thereof  upon  a  shoreless  sea, 

Which  has  no  ark, 
No  dove  to  bring  this  olive-branch  to  thee. 

Then  do  not  roam 
In  search  of  that  which  wandering  cannot  win : 

At  home,  at  home 
That  word  is  placed,  thy  mouth,  thy  heart  within. 

0,  seek  it  there, 
Turn  to  its  teachings  with  devoted  will; 

Watch  unto  prayer, 
And  in  the  power  of  faith  this  love  fulfil. 


33* 


390  POEMS. 


SONNET. 


THE  night  seems  darkest  ere  the  dawn  of  day 
Rises  with  light  and  gladness  on  its  wings : 
And  every  breaker  that  the  ocean  flings 

To  shore  before  the  tempest  dies  away, 

Some  sign  of  wreck  or  token  of  dismay, 

Awakening  thoughts  of  death  and  ruin,  brings. 
But  he  whose  spirit  resolutely  clings 

To  his  best  hopes,  on  these  his  mind  can  stay. 
Faith,  humble  faith,  can  doubt  and  fear  defy ; 

For  every  wound  it  bears  a  healing  balm, 

Turns  sorrow's  moan  into  thanksgiving's  psalm ; 
And  those  who  trust  in  God  when  storms  are  high, 
And  waves  are  rough,  and  starless  is  the  sky, 

Shall  sing  his  praise  in  the  eternal  calm. 


POEMS.  391 


VISION  OF  AN  OLD  HOME. 


Straight  before  me  rose 
A  house  where  all  was  hush'd  in  calm  repose ; 
For  't  was  a  summer  morning,  bright  and  fair, 
And  none  of  human  kind  were  near  me  there. 
Before  the  house  there  were  some  lofty  trees, 
Whose  topmost  branches  felt  the  morning  breeze 
And  glisten'd  in  the  sunbeams ;  these  among 
Were  numerous  rooks  attending  on  their  young, 
Whose  clamorous  cawings,  as  they  hover'd  round, 
Seem'd  to  my  ear  like  Music's  sweetest  sound. 
Below,  before  the  house,  there  was  a  space, 
Where  in  two  rows  were  set,  with  bloomy  grace, 
Orange  and  lemon  trees ;  which  to  the  sun 
Open'd  their  fragrant  blossoms  every  one ; 
And  round  them  bees  all  busily  were  humming, 
Cheerily  to  their  morning  labours  coming :  — 
And  in  the  centre  of  each  space  beside, 
An  aloe  spread  its  prickly  leaves  with  pride. 

***** 
Now  in  the  garden  of  that  house  I  stray'd, 
Its  flowers,  its  mossy  turf,  its  walks  survey'd; 


392  POEMS. 

Explored  each  nook  and  roam'd  through  each  recess 
With  pleasure  and  light-hearted  carelessness  : 
Nor  was  it  long  before  I  found  a  walk 
Where  I  might  meditate  alone  or  talk ; — 
A  grassy  walk,  with  lime  trees  on  one  side, 
Bordering  a  pond  which  yet  they  did  not  hide ; 
For  here  and  there  upon  its  rippling  bosom 
The  water-lily  oped  her  dewy  blossom ; 
And,  at  the  end  of  this  sweet  walk  I  found 
A  grotto,  where  I  listened  to  the  sound 
Of  turtle-doves,  which  in  a  room  above, 
Were  tremulously  telling  tales  of  love. 


TO  FELICIA  HEMANS. 

MUCH  do  I  owe  thee  for  the  passing  gleams 
Of  verse,  along  my  weary  pathway  thrown : 

Musical  verse,  that  came  like  sound  of  streams 
Heard  from  afar,  and  in  whose  silver  tone 
My  soul  the  happy  melodies  could  own 

That  gladden'd  childhood — like  the  softest  breeze 
Breathing  at  eve  from  leafy  copses  lone, 

Mix'd  with  the  song  of  birds,  and  hum  of  bees, 

With  deeper  notes  between  like  sounds  of  mighty  seas. 


POEMS.  893 

THE    SQUIRREL. 

(FOR  A  CHILD'S  BOOK.) 

THE  squirrel  is  happy,  the  squirrel  is  gay, 

Little  Henry  exclaim' d  to  his  brother, 
He  has  nothing  to  do  or  to  think  of  but  play, 

And  to  jump  from  one  bough  to  another. 

But  William  was  older  and  wiser,  and  knew 
That  all  play  and  no  work  would  n't  answer, 

So  he  ask'd  what  the  squirrel  in  winter  must  do, 
If  he  spent  all  the  summer  a  dancer. 

The  squirrel,  dear  Harry,  is  merry  and  wise, 
For  true  wisdom  and  mirth  go  together; 

He  lays  up  in  summer  his  winter  supplies, 
And  then  he  don't  mind  the  cold  weather. 


IT  is  a  glorious  summer  eve,  and  in  the  glowing  west, 
Pillow'd  on  clouds  of  purple  hue,  the  broad  sun  sinks  to  rest ; 
From  me  his  radiant  orb  is  hid  behind  the  towering  cliff, 
But  brightly  fall  his  parting  beams  on  yonder  seaward  skiff. 

An  hour  it  is  when  memory  wakes,  and   turns  to  former 

years, 

And  lives  along  the  travell'd  line  of  parted  hopes  and  fears ; 
A  time  when  buried  joys  and  griefs  arise  and  live  again, 
Those  sober'd  in  their  happiness,  these  soften'd  in  their  pain. 


394  POEMS. 


PLAYFORD. 


UPON  a  hill-side  green  and  fair 

The  happy  traveller  sees 
"White  cottages  peep  here  and  there 

Between  the  tufts  of  trees; 
With  a  white  farm-house  on  the  brow, 
And  an  old  grey  Hall  below 

With  moat  and  garden  round; 
And  on  a  Sabbath  wandering  near 
Through  all  the  quiet  place  you  hear 

A  Sabbath-breathing  sound 
Of  the  church-bell  slowly  swinging 

In  an  old  grey  tower  above 
The  wooded  hill,  where  birds  are  singing 

In  the  deep  quiet  of  the  grove ;  — 
And  when  the  bell  shall  cease  to  ring, 
And  the  birds  no  longer  sing, 
And  the  grasshopper  is  heard  no  more, 

A  sound  of  praise,  of  prayer, 
Rises  along  the  air, 
Like  the  sea  murmur  from  a  distant  shore. 


POEMS.  395 


SONNETS  TO  BURSTAL* 


I.    BERRY'S  HILL. 

WHO  gave  this  spot  the  name  of  Berry's  Hill  ? 

I  know  not,  and  in  sooth  care  not  to  know ; 

For  names,  like  fashions,  often  come  and  go 
By  mere  caprice  of  arbitrary  will ; 
But  'tis  a  lovely  spot  —  enough  of  skill 

Hath  been  employ'd  to  make  it  lovelier  show, 

Yet  not  enough  for  art  to  overthrow 
What  Nature  meant  should  be  her  livery  still. 

That  gleaming  lakelet  sparkling  in  the  ray 
Of  summer  sunshine ;  these  embowering  trees, 
Bustled  each  moment  by  the  passing  breeze ; 

And  those  which  clothe  with  many-tinted  spray 

Yon  wooded  heights ;  green  meads  with  flowerets  gay ; 
Each  gives  to  each  yet  added  powers  to  please. 

*  These  eight  sonnets  were  composed  during  a  day's  visit  to  the 
village  of  Burstal,  near  Ipswich,  in  some  grounds  belonging  to  John 
Alexander. 


396  POEMS. 


II. 

THE  SEAT  AT  BERRY'S  HILL. 

IT  was  a  happy  thought,  upon  the  brow 
Of  this  slight  eminence,  abrupt  and  sheer, 
This  artless  seat  and  straw-thatch'd  roof  to  rear; 

Where  one  may  watch  the  labourer  at  his  plough ; 

Or  hear  well^pleased,  as  I  am  listening  now, 
The  song  of  wild  birds  falling  on  the  ear, 
Blended  with  hum  of  bees,  or,  sound  more  drear, 

The  solemn  murmur  of  the  wind-swept  bough. 
Tent-like  the  fabric  —  in  its  centre  stands 

The  sturdy  oak,  that  spreads  his  boughs  on  high 

Above  the  roof:  while  to  the  unsated  eye 

Beauteous  the  landscape  which  below  expands, 
Where  grassy  meadows,  richly  cultured  lands 

With  leafy  woods  and  hedge-row  graces  vie. 


POEMS.  397 


III. 

THE  SAME  SCENE. 

IT  were,  methinks,  no  very  daring  flight 
Unto  a  poet's  fond  imagination, 
To  make  this  tent  a  prouder,  habitation ; 

Where  Nature's  worshipper  and  votary  might, 

With  each  appropriate  and  simple  rite, 
Bow  to  her  charms,  in  quiet  adoration 
Of  Him  who  meant  his  visible  creation 

Should  minister  to  more  than  outward  sight. 
0  then  this  tent-like  seat  might  well  become 

A  temple  —  more  befitting  prayer  or  praise 

Than  the  mere  listless  loiterer's  idle  gaze ; 
And  if  it  struck  the  sordid  worldling  dumb, 
Proving  of  Nature's  charms  the  countless  sum, 

'T  were  not  less  worthy  of  the  poet's  praise. 


34 


398  POEMS. 


IN  THE  SHRUBBERY  NEAR  THE  COTTAGE. 

FAIR  Earth,  thou  surely  wert  not  meant  to  be 
Time's  show-room ;  but  the  glorious  vestibule 
Of  scenes  that  stretch  beyond  his  sway  and  rule, 

Or  that  of  aught  we  now  can  hear  or  see. 

For  he  who  most  intently  looks  at  thee, 

Must  be  a  novice  e'en  in  Nature's  school  — 
In  one  far  higher  a  more  hopeless  fool, 

To  go  no  further  with  her  master-key  ! 
Beautiful  as  thou  art,  thou  art  no  more 

Than  a  faint  shadow  or  a  glimmering  ray 

Of  beauty,  glory,  ne'er  to  pass  away; 

Nor  thankless  is  thy  minstrel,  at  three-score, 
While  he  can  revel  in  thy  beauteous  store, 

To  look  beyond  thy  transitory  day. 


POEMS.  399 


V. 

THE  BURSTAL  LAKELET. 

THE  dweller  on  Ullswater's  grander  shore, 
Or  Keswick's,  would  deny  thee  any  claim 
Even  to  bear  a  lakelet's  borrowed  name, 

Of  thy  small  urn  so  scanty  seems  the  store. 

And  such  would  doubtless  scout  the  poet' s  lore, 
Who  one  poor  sonnet  should  presume  to  frame 
In  celebration  of  thy  humble  fame, 

Although  to  theirs  he  could  award  no  more. 
Yet  all  the  pomp  and  plenitude  of  space 

They  boast,  can  but  reflect  the  wider  scene 

Of  beauty  round ;  as  lovely  is  the  sheen 
Of  thy  clear  mirror,  in  which  now  I  trace 
The  soften' d  impress  and  the  heightened  grace 

Of  earth  and  sky  both  silent  and  serene. 


400 


POEMS. 


VI. 


THE  TWO  OAKS. 

THERE  are  among  the  leafy  monarchs  round, 
Trees  loftier  far  than  you,  of  ampler  size, 
And  likelier  to  attract  a  stranger's  eyes, 

With  sylvan  honours  more  superbly  crown'd. 

And  yet  in  you  a  higher  charm  is  found 
And  purer  —  to  our  sweetest  sympathies, 
Than  all  that  Nature's  lavish  hand  supplies 

To  others,  growing  on  this  fairy  ground. 
Ye  are  mementos  of  a  wedded  pair, 

Once  wont  this  loved  familiar  scene  to  tread  — 

Death,  which  has  lowly  laid  one  honour'd  head, 
Has  but  conferr'd  on  you  an  added  share 
Of  love  and  interest,  since  to  us  you  are 

Memorials  of  the  living  and  the  dead. 


POEMS.  401 


vn. 

EVENING  IN  THE  VALLEY. 

"EARTH  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair/' 

So  Wordsworth  sang  what  time  he  made  his  theme 

The  bridge  that  arches  Westminster's  proud  stream 
Yet  had  he  seen  this  lovely  valley  wear 
The  lingering  brightness  day  hath  yet  to  spare, 

Each  lengthening  shadow  and  each  sunny  gleam, 

Silent  in  all  their  changes  as  a  dream, 
He  might  have  doubted  which  the  palm  should  bear. 

And  now  calm  evening  draws  her  curtain  grey 
Over  the  melting  twilight's  mellower  flush; 
But  for  the  brightly  glowing  roseate  blush 

That  tinges  still  the  west,  it  fades  away ; 

And  Nature  owns  the  meek  and  gentle  sway 
Of  pensive  Twilight's  uuiversal  hush. 


34* 


402  POEMS. 


VIII. 

BURSTAL,  IN  THE  FOUR  SEASONS. 

How  sweet  it  were,  methinks;  to  sojourn  here 
And  watch  the  seasons  in  their  changeful  flight : 
To  see  the  Spring  bedeck  with  wild-flowers  bright 

The  valley  and  those  swelling  uplands  near; 

To  mark  the  Summer  in  her  blithe  career 
Bursting  in  full  luxuriance  on  the  sight 
And  matron  Autumn  re-assert  her  right 

To  crown  with  harvest-boons  the  circling  year. 
Nor  undelightful  would  it  be,  I  weenr 

At  Christmas  here  to  trim  the  cottage  fire, 

Pore  o'er  the  lay  or  tune  the  Muse's  lyre, 

What  time  rude  Winter,  with  his  sterner  mien, 
In  spotless  snow  array'd  the  alter'd  scene, 

And  hush'd  in  stillness  all  the  woodland  choir. 


POEMS.  403 


RETIREMENT  AND  PRAYER. 

And  he  withdrew  himself  into  the  wilderness  and  prayed."  —  LOKE  v.  16. 

IP  thus  our  Lord  himself  withdrew, 

Stealing  at  times  away, 
E'en  from  the  loved,  the  chosen  few, 

In  solitude  to  pray, 

How  should  his  followers,  frail  and  weak, 
Such  seasons  _  of  retirement  seek! 

Seldom  amid  the  strife  and  din 

Of  sublunary  things, 
Can  spirits  keep  their  watch  within, 

Or  plume  their  heaven-ward  wings; 
He  must  dwell  deep,  indeed,  whose  heart 
Can  thus  fulfil  true  wisdom's  part. 

Retirement  must  adjust  the  beam, 

And  prayer  must  poise  the  scales, 
Our  Guide,  Example,  Head  supreme, 

In  neither  lesson  fails; 
Oh,  may  we  in  remembrance  bear, 
He  sought  retirement,  —  practised  prayer! 


404  POEMS. 


IN    CGELO    QUIES. 

NOT  in  this  weary  world  of  ours 

Can  perfect  rest  be  found; 
Thorns  mingle  with  its  fairest  flowers, 

Even  on  cultured  ground; 
A  brook  —  to  drink  of  by  the  way, 

A  rock  —  its  shade  to  cast, 
May  cheer  our  path  from  day  to  day, 

But  such  not  long  can  last; 
Earth's  pilgrim,  still,  his  loins  must  gird 

To  seek  a  lot  more  blest; 
And  this  must  be  his  onward  word, — 

"In  heaven,  alone,  is  rest." 

This  cannot  be  our  resting-place ! 

Though  now  and  then  a  gleam 
Of  lovely  nature,  heavenly  grace, 

May  on  it  briefly  beam  : 
Grief's  pelting  shower,  Care's  dark'ning  cloud, 

Still  falls,  or  hovers  near; 
And  sin's  pollutions  often  shroud 

The  light  of  life,  while  here. 
Not  till  it  "shuffle  off  the  coil" 

In  which  it  lies  deprest, 
Can  the  pure  spirit  cease  from  toil;— 

"In  heaven,  alone,  is  rest!" 


POEMS.  405 


Rest  to  the  weary  anxious  soul, 

That,  on  life's  toilsome  road, 
Bears  onward  to  the  destined  goal 

Its  heavy  galling  load; 
Rest  unto  eyes  that  often  weep 

Beneath  the  day's  broad  light, 
Or  oftener  painful  vigils  keep 

Through  the  dark  hours  of  night ! 
But  let  us  bear  with  pain  and  care, 

As  ills  to  be  redrest, 
Relying  on  the  promise  fair, — 

"In  heaven  there  will  be  rest!" 


THE  END. 


LINDSAY  &    BLAKISTON 

PUBLISH  THE 

AMERICAN  FEMALE  POETS: 

WITH 

BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  NOTICES, 

BY 
CAROLINE   MAY. 

AN  ELEGANT  VOLUME,  WITH  A  HANDSOME  VIGNETTE  TITLE, 

AND 

PORTRAIT  OF   MRS,  OSGOOD, 

The  Literary  contents  of  this  work  contain  copious  selections  from 

the  writings  of 

Anne  Bradstreet,  Jane  Turell,  Anne  Eliza  Bleecker,  Margaretta 
V.  Faugeres,  Phlllis  Wheatley,  Mercy  Warren,  Sarah  Porter, 
Sarah   Wentworth    Morton,    Mrs.    Little,    Maria    A.    Brooks, 
Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney,  Anna  Maria  Wells,  Caroline  Gil- 
man,  Sarah  Josepha  Hale,  Maria  James,  Jessie  G.  M'Cartee, 
Mrs.  Gray,  Eliza  Follen,  Louisa  Jane   Hall,  Mrs.  Swift, 
Mrs.  E.  C.  Kinney,  Marguerite  St.  Leon  Loud,  Luella  J. 
Case,  Elizabeth  Bogart,  A.  D.  Woodbridge,  Elizabeth 
Margaret  Chandler,  Emma  C.  Embury,  Sarah  Helena 
"Whitman,  Cynthia  Taggartj  Elizabeth  J.  Eames, 

&C.    «&C.    &C. 

The  whole  forming  a  beautiful  specimen  of  the  highly  cultivated  state  oi 

the  arts  in  the  United  States,  as  regards  the  paper,  topography, 

and  binding  in  rich  and  various  styles. 

EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  PREFACE. 

One  of  the  most  striking  characteristics  of  the  present  age 
is  the  number  of  female  writers,  especially  in  the  department 
of  belles-lettres.  This  is  even  more  true  of  the  United 
States,  than  of  the  old  world ;  and  poetry,  which  is  the  lan- 
guage of  the  affections,  has  been  freely  employed  among  us 
to  express  the  emotions  of  woman's  heart. 

As  the  rare  exotic,  costly  because  of  the  distance  from 
which  it  is  brought,  will  often  suffer  in  comparison  of  beauty 
and  fragrance  with  the  abundant  wild  flowers  of  our  mea- 
dows and  woodland  slopes,  so  the  reader  of  our  present 
volume,  if  ruled  by  an  honest  taste,  will  discover  in  the  effu- 
sions of  our  gifted  countrywomen  as  much  grace  of  form, 
and  powerful  sweetness  of  thought  and  feeling,  as  in  the 
blossoms  of  woman's  genius  culled  from  other  lands. 


LINDSAY  &   BLAKISTON 

PUBLISH  THE 

BRITISH    FEMALE    POETS: 

WITH 

BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  NOTICES, 

BY 

GEO.   W.   BETHUNE. 

AN   ELEGANT  VOLUME,   WITH   A  HANDSOME   VIGNETTE    TITLE, 

AND 

PORTRAIT  OF  THE  HON.  MRS,  NORTON. 

The  Literary  contents  of  this  work  contain  copious  selections  from 

the  writings  of 

Anne  Boleyn,  Countess  of  Arundel,  Queen  Elizabeth,  Duchess  of 

Newcastle,  Elizabeth  Carter?  Mrs*  Tiglie,   Miss  Hannah  More, 

Mrs*  Hemans,  Lady  Flora  Hastings,  Mrs*  Amelia   Opie,   Miss 

Eliza  Cook,  Mrs*  Southey,  Miss  Lowe,  Mrs.  Norton,  Elizabeth 

B*  Barrett,  Catharine  Parr,  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  Countess 

of  Pembroke,  Lady  Mary  \Vortley  Montague,  Mrs*  Gre« 

ville,  Mrs.  Barbauld,  Joanna  Baillie,  Letitia  Elizabeth 

Itandou,  Charlotte  Elizabeth,   Mary  Russell  Mitford*. 

Mrs*  Coleridge,  Mary  Hovvitt,  Frances  Kemble  Butler, 

•fee*  &c.  &c* 

The  whole  forming  a  beautiful  specimen  of  the  highly  cultivated  state  of 

the  arts  in  the  United  States,  as  regards  the  paper,  typography, 

and  binding  in  rich  and  various  styles. 

OPINIONS   OF   THE    PRESS. 

In  the  department  of  English  poetry,  we  have  long  looked  for  a  spirit  cast  in  nature's  finest,  yet 
most  elevated  mould,  possessed  of  the  most  delicate  and  exquisite  taste,  the  keenest  perception 
of  the  innate  true  and  beautiful  in  poetry,  as  opposed  to  their  opposites,  who  could  give  to  us  a 
pure  collection  of  the  British  Female  Poets ;  many  of  them  among  the  choicest  spirits  that  ever 
graced  and  adorned  humanity.  The  object  of  our  search,  in  this  distinct  and  important  mission, 
is  before  us ;  and  we  acknowledge  at  once  in  Dr.  Bethune.  the  gifted  poet,  the  eloquent  divine, 
and  the  humble  Christian,  one  who  combines,  in  an  eminent  degree,  all  the  characteristics  above 
alluded  to.  It  raises  the  mind  loftier,  and  makes  it  purified  with  the  soul,  to  float  in  an  atmosphere 
of  spiritual  purity,  to  peruse  the  elegant  volume  before  us,  chaste,  rich,  and  beautiful,  without  and 
within.— The  Spectator, 

We  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  any  previous  attempt  to  form  a  poetical  bouqttet  exclusively 
from  gardens  planted  by  female  hands,  and  made  fragrant  and  beautiful  by  woman's  gentle  culture. 
We  know  few  men  equally  qualified  with  the  gifted  Editor  of  this  volume  for  the  tasteful  and 
judicious  selection  and  adjustment  of  the  various  flowers  that  are  to  delight  with  their  sweetness, 
soothe  with  their  softness,  and  impart  profit  with  their  sentiment.  The  volume  is  enriched  with 
Biographical  Sketches  of  some  sixty  poetesses,  each  sketch  being  followed  with  specimens  charac- 
teristic of  her  style  and  powers  of  verse.  In  beauty  of  typography,  and  general  getting  up,  this 
volume  is  quite  equal  to  the  best  issues  of  its  tasteful  and  enterprising  publishers.— Episcopal  Recorder. 

It  is  handsomely  embellished,  and  may  be  described  as  a  casket  of  gems.  Dr.  Bethune,  who  is 
himself  a  poet  of  no  mean  genius,  has  in  this  volume  exhibited  the  most  refined  taste.  The  work 
may  be  regarded  as  a  treasury  of  nearly  all  the  best  pieces  of  British  Female  Poets.— Inquirer. 

This  volume,  which  is  far  more  suited  for  a  holyday  gift  than  many  which  are  prepared  expressly 
lor  the  purpose,  contains  extracts  from  all  the  most  distinguished  English  Female  Poets,  selected 
with  the  taste  and  judgment  which  we  have  a  right  to  expect  from  the  eminent  divine  and  highly 
gifted  poet  whose  name  auoms  the  title  page.  It  is  a  rare  collection  of  the  richest  gems.— Balti- 
more American. 

Dr.  Bethune  has  selected  his  materials  with  exquisite  taste,  culling  the  fairest  and  sweetest 
flowers  from  the  extensive  field  cultivated  by  the  British  Female  Poets.  The  brief  Biographical 
Notices  add  much  interest  to  the  volume,  and  vastly  increase  Us  value.  It  is  pleasant  to  find  hard- 
working and  close-thinking  divines  thus  recreating  themselves,  and  contributing  bv  their  recrea- 
tions to  the  refinement  of  the  age.  Dr.  Belhune  has  brought  to  his  task  poetic  enthusiasm,  and  • 
eadjr  perception  of  the  pure  and  beautiful.— N.  Y.  Commercial 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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M185236 


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